by Meg Cowley
Harper’s relief tempered, and she dropped her gaze to the floor. “Not truly.”
“Well, Master Dimitri is working on that as we speak, Miss Harper. I don’t doubt it.”
“Call me Harper, please. What do you mean ‘working on it’?” Harper looked up at the aged elf. “He’s not here?”
“No, Mi...Harper. He’s at the court.”
With Saradon.
Harper swallowed, and her gaze flicked to the window again. To the dull, stone buildings and the city rising beyond them up to the castle.
“When will he return?” she asked in a low voice.
“When his business is done. He’ll be all right. Don’t worry,” Emyria added. At the unspoken worry in Harper’s eyes, she moved closer to pat her arm. “You will be, too, dear. Dimitri is very good at taking care of those under his protection.”
With that, she bustled away.
“Wait!” Harper called. Emyria looked over her shoulder. “What am I supposed to do with myself?”
Do I need to work for my keep? Or is there something I’m supposed to be doing? Of course, she had a great task at hand–to defeat Saradon...somehow. It’s not like I can accomplish anything toward that end right now, she thought with a mixture of disgust and despair at her uselessness.
Emyria raised an eyebrow. “Make yourself at home. Rest. Recover. His apartments are yours whilst you stay here, though I would not venture outside, just in case.”
Harper nodded. After Emyria left, she spun in a slow circle, taking in her room. A bed, a fire, a dressing table, a wardrobe, a chair. Harper sucked on the inside of her cheek.
With nothing better to occupy herself or her thoughts, she decided to find out where the grand and feared spymaster of the king–and the disastrously selfish and somewhat naïve elf–Dimitrius Vaeri Mortris of House Ellarian lived.
After the third drawing room, she was sicker than she ever thought she could be at the sight of comfortable sofas and recliners, and polished tables of the finest woods carved into intricate patterns. After the fifth bedroom, she despaired at the endless luxuries he possessed and wasted–when the likes of her wondered where her next meal would come from. When she stumbled across the library, her breath caught.
Endless, dark wood shelves stretched up, only reachable by the sliding ladders that had been mounted at regular intervals. Her shack would have fit ten times over in it. Even the inn would not have touched the sides, though it would have been too tall for the wood-panelled ceiling flecked with golden vines, leaves, and flowers.
What stories are here? She marvelled at it all, drifting over to the shelves for a closer look.
She ran her fingers down the smooth, pristine spines of the books, feeling the indentation of the titles stamped and embossed upon them in gilded and coloured text, reading them slowly. There were things she had never heard of, words she could not read upon them. It made her tattered storybook look shamefully poor and inadequate.
Unable to quell her curiosity, Harper pulled one from the shelf. The spine was old with cracks running through it, the cover worn and faded, yet still legible. It was heavy, far heavier than her small books, the cover made of high-quality leather the likes she had not seen on a book before.
“The Sagas of Vardanyan,” she read to herself slowly, sounding out the unfamiliar word.
Betta had taught her to read, but as she flicked through the thick pages that crackled as she turned them, as though so old and brittle they would snap in her hands, she realised just how little she knew.
I can hardly read any of it with ease, she thought with dismay.
Nevertheless, she looked around the shelves with renewed vigour. At least if I have no way to find Dragonhearts or break evil curses, I can delve into great tales and noble deeds.
Harper looked down at the book once more. After a moment’s hesitation, she clutched it to her chest. She was determined to read it, even if she had to sound out every word.
EMYRIA FOUND HER IN one of the comfy, large armchairs in the sprawling library. Harper could not remember whether it was the third or fourth chair she had stumbled upon, but this one looked onto a courtyard. The courtyard was small and stony, and the two-story surroundings cast shadows, but in the centre grew an evergreen tree covered with strange flowers. It was the closest to freedom, to the outside world, that she could get.
“It’s freezing in here!” exclaimed Emyria, bustling in to shut the window.
“Wait!” Harper shifted, trying to extricate herself from her curled-up position amongst the cushions.
Emyria paused, nonplussed.
“I’m sorry. I just thought...” Harper hung her head. “It smells nice.”
Emyria frowned. “What do you mean?”
Harper’s voice grew quieter. “The tree... It smells nice. It reminds me of home.”
It had been a while since she had thought of Betta. In abandoning thoughts of Caledan and her former life for the battle she now found herself amongst, it was easier to assuage the guilt.
“I’m sorry if it wasn’t allowed. I just wanted to feel the wind upon my face again, then I smelled the sap and it reminded me so much of home tha—”
Emyria raised her hand to stem Harper’s babbling, adding a kind smile. “Don’t worry, Harper. I understand how that is.”
“Oh. Thank you.” She had expected a dressing down for taking liberties in her host’s home. Then Emyria’s words hit her. “What do you mean?”
Emyria shifted, and her attention flicked out of the window. “Before Dimi relieved me from my...prior employment, shall we say—” Emyria seemed to find the words distasteful, judging by the twist of her mouth, “—I saw little of the light, the air, or the flowers.
“One day, the mistress had a flower upon her nightstand so beautiful that I could not help but stand and stare at it, for it was the colour of the flowers my mother used to weave into my hair as a little girl. A rare bloom, one I had not seen for centuries. I was caught dallying, accused of theft, when I had not even so much as touched it, and punished.”
Harper drew up in indignance. “That’s awful! That’s not right! Couldn’t you appeal?”
Emyria laughed. “A bonded slave does not appeal against their master or mistress, Harper. A bonded slave obeys–whatever the price.”
Harper’s voice dropped to a whisper, almost like she didn’t want to know the answer to her next question. “What was the price?”
Emyria’s face darkened, and she fell silent.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No, it’s okay. You don’t know this country, how this society operates. Suffice it to say, the court is not a kind place, even for the nobles. For those of us who are lesser, it is some degrees worse. The great houses are built on the blood and sweat of their servants and slaves, though you won’t see one hint of it on the outside.”
“I’m sorry.”
Emyria smiled warmly, but it did not reach her hazel eyes. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault. I’ll leave you to your story. What are you reading?”
“The Saga of Vardanyan. Though, I must admit, not very well.”
“Ah, brilliant. Master Dimitri likes that one, too. I’ll leave you to it. There are blankets in that chest if you get cold.”
Emyria bustled away. Harper retreated to the chair again, but the book was forgotten. She stared at the flowering tree and wondered on Emyria’s past, her punishment, and Dimitri’s involvement.
He must have a kinder streak than I first thought. Is this another mask to peel back?
She wondered how he was getting on, her gaze drifting up the palace walls, but she both anticipated and feared the answer.
HARPER WOKE IN THE chair to the gloom of the dying day. She began to uncurl her stiff body, stifling a groan when she heard voices outside the library.
Dimitri and Emyria.
“She’s been in here all day, bless her, reading your favourite old tale. How she picked that out amongst all the clutter you have in there, I’ll never
know.”
“It’s not clutter.” Dimitri’s voice sounded warm and amused, despite his protest. “She’s been no trouble then?”
“Of course not, Dimi,” Emyria scoffed. “If the girls you usually bring home were half as nice, I’d have a much easier time.”
Ugh, Harper thought at the prospect of that.
Dimitri huffed.
“Rather the opposite. She’s different.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” Dimitri sounded both impressed and despairing. Harper scowled at the door, as though he could see her.
“It’s you I have trouble looking after. You look dreadful.”
“Thanks for noticing.”
“I’m serious, Dimi. I’m worried about you. I haven’t seen you this harried since, well... In a long while.”
The chair creaked under Harper’s infinitesimally small movement, and she froze, straining her ears.
“I’m just tired, Emyria. That’s all.”
“I know it’s worse than that. You can’t hide it from me.”
“I never can.” Dimitri’s voice sounded tired, yet grateful, as if he appreciated her concern.
“Then don’t try.”
Dimitri sighed. “We’re in a real predicament, Emyria. I might have to send you away soon, for your own safety.”
“I don’t want to leave you.”
“I won’t risk you. You’ve looked after me for all these years. I won’t see you suffer again by anyone’s hands, least of all his.”
“Is it really true then?” Emyria’s voice was hushed, and Harper strained to hear her. “The royal family is dead and he’s taken over everything?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Dimi.” There was a long pause. “What will happen?” The plaintive fear in Emyria’s voice was palpable.
Dimitri sighed. “I don’t know. But I promise, whatever it takes, I will keep you and the others safe.”
“We trust that you will. You have been the kindest master any of us have had.”
“Don’t call me that,” he bit out. “You are not bound to me, not one of you.”
Harper wondered at his tone, and yet again of the strange, multi-faceted elf she still seemed to know so little about.
“Sorry, Dimi.”
“Go on. I’ll have to wake Harper. We have business in the palace.” His voice lowered so much that Harper could not hear what he said next. “Thank you, Emyria. We won’t have need of anything else until the morning.”
“Of course.” Emyria’s skirts rustled as she left.
Harper quickly shut her eyes and plopped her head back against the cushions as Dimitri slunk through the partially open door. He padded across the space–his steps silent on the thick rugs, then quiet taps on the wooden parquet–before he slipped silently into a chair opposite her.
Harper slyly cracked open one eye, but his attention was upon the open window, his brow furrowed, as if he stared into another place and time.
With slow, deliberate movements and a sleepy sigh, Harper uncurled slowly and opened her eyes, blinking a few times for good measure.
She frowned at Dimitri. “What are you doing there?”
“I’m waiting for you to wake up, of course.”
“Why?” She dreaded the answer. The deepening shadows cast darkness across him, and Dimitri’s violet eyes glittered forebodingly in the glare of the small faelights dotted about, which offered no real illumination to the gloom.
“He is holding a ball,” said Dimitri, scowling, “to celebrate the ‘new era of Pelenor’, as he puts it. To celebrate out with the old–the corruption, the sinful–and in with the...” He waved his hand around, “whatever he thinks of himself.”
“You no longer agree.”
Dimitri met her gaze. “We have not seen eye to eye for a long time. Since the moment I raised him, I suspect.”
“We will get out of this mess,” Harper said more strongly than she felt, as much for her own benefit as his.
He smiled at her tiredly. “You know, I think that’s the first time you might ever have said we. Are we a team?” His voice held honey and allure, but not in his usual measures.
“You’re losing your touch if you think that charms me.” Harper threw back the blanket and rose, stretching high on her tiptoes.
“I’ll keep trying then.” Dimitri rose smoothly and winked at her with a sultry smile. She rolled her eyes and passed the blanket to his outstretched hand. In a few movements, he had deftly folded it and placed it on the chair. “For the next time you wish to come and read.”
Harper picked up the tome she had managed to get partway through. “May I take this to my room to read at night?”
Dimitri cocked his head to read the title, and a faint smile flitted across his face. “That’s one of my favourite tales. I’ve had it since I was a boy. I used to read that when times were dark and all I had were the stars of the night sky to offer light and hope.”
“I didn’t take you for the sentimental type.”
Harper’s heart pounded. They were just delaying the inevitable. Their back-and-forth would waste mere seconds, but they would have to answer their summons sooner rather than later. They could not skulk in the dark forever.
Dimitri drew closer, and she could see the mask he wore now. It enlivened him, brought some of the sparkle back to his eyes, the smirk to his face. “I can show you an awful lot of things I’m capable of, if you’ll let me.”
“Ugh.” Harper pushed the book at him. “Take your damn book if you like it that much.”
She strode to the window and latched it shut, shivering at the insipid breeze that wound its way in. Outside, the dark leaves shivered and quieted in the breeze as a light snow began to fall.
Winter is here.
“Come,” said Dimitri, his tone subdued. She startled and turned to him. “We cannot keep him waiting. You may keep the book for as long as you wish.” He held it out to her, and she took it, their fingers brushing.
“What do I have to do at the ball?” Harper’s voice was almost silent, but he heard it. He moved closer as they strode out of the library, as if to offer a wordless comfort.
“Look like a peacock.”
She stopped. “A what?”
“I always forget you come from a dull, backwater...” He sighed. “Be a pretty piece to be admired. A jewel in a gown. A doll. You are not required to speak, but tonight, he wishes to unveil you as his heir, which unfortunately means you will be on show to all.”
“W-what?” Ice flooded Harper’s veins.
Dimitri’s expression was grim. “I know it’s not something you are used to or feel comfortable doing. I’ll stay with you the whole night. We might have to dance–don’t worry, I can lead–and make polite introductions all around, but just keep a smile on your face, be aloof, and stand tall. Above all, do not show any hint of fear. We will be done in a few hours. I promise.”
Harper did not move, clutching the book to her chest and wishing she could disappear into the tale. Surely it would be easier to become Dreyra, chasing her love, Lokki, through dungeons and wastes upon an epic quest, instead of facing a court of shadows and wolves.
Dimitri held out a hand for her, but did not speak. He did not need to. They both felt the growing tug. Wordlessly, she walked toward him, slipped her small, cool fingers into his large, warm palm, and they fell into step once more.
“This will not be forever.” Dimitri sounded ragged, but his violet eyes blazed with determination as she looked at him. “Emyria is preparing a gown for you, borrowed from one of the former princesses.”
“Former...”
His expression hardened. “Things have changed already. Don’t think on it. It’s nothing more than a pretty dress that shall look just as lovely upon you, Princess Harper.” He sounded almost derisive, and she scowled.
“Emyria will dress you and prepare your hair and jewellery. I’ll see you shortly.” He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and smiled at her before disappearing into hi
s own chambers.
She watched the door shut on the warm, brightly lit room before hurrying to her own quarters, where Emyria fluttered around in a state of anxiety.
Seven
The dark clouds on the horizon were not born of nature, but a blazing, roiling fire that belched black smoke into the heavens. Raedon’s stomach churned at the realisation, and he urged Zakynthor faster. The dragon flew higher and harder at his unspoken bidding.
“What fresh hell is this?” he asked, aghast.
Zakynthor growled in reply. “I can taste fire and blood upon the wind. I like it not.”
What had befallen Pelenor in his short absence? What had Toroth done? Raedon wondered how the king had possibly come to cause more mayhem from inside the confines of his room, and his sickbed, but he did not put anything past the devious old elf.
Distance and time yawned before Raedon, and every moment felt like the span of a day as they inched toward the city and mountains on the horizon.
The more he looked, the more he could not understand it. The scale was wrong.
Zakynthor realised first. “I smell dragonflesh.” Anger and unease rumbled within him, which Raedon could sense across their bond as if it were his own.
Within Tournai’s dragonhold were a few ailing dragons, their magic waning with the insidious poison of Saradon’s Curse. The handful on duty, however, were fit and strong. Something terrible had happened. Dragons did not languish and die within the city, to be burnt upon a pyre. They retreated into the mountains, never to be seen again.
Zakynthor banked higher still, so he could fly faster through the thinner air, until they were above the clouds. He was guided by his own internal compass, and Raedon did not need to steer him or check their location by dipping below the clouds.
Instead, for what little good it did, he crouched low over Zakynthor’s neck, streamlining his position against the rough scales and tightening his knees upon the moulded saddle.
At last, Zakynthor dipped below the clouds, and Raedon saw they had emerged directly over the top of the dragonhold. Even this high, the smoke constricted his breathing. He caught the faintest glimpse of the pyres far below them, reduced to unrecognisable piles.
