by Meg Cowley
Dimitri led Harper in, a procession of elves following behind. With a curl of his finger, a footman rushed to offer them drinks, gently pouring fizzing, golden liquid into delicate glass flutes. Harper took hers and sipped it, somehow maintaining a straight face as it violently bubbled in her mouth.
“Shall we mingle, my lady?” Dimitri smiled, but his eyes and voice were cold. She nodded. They circled the slowly filling room, but no one stopped to speak to them.
“I can’t say I like the company,” she dared to murmur.
He chuckled. “It doesn’t get any better, I’m afraid. Slim pickings here.” He cast his gaze scornfully around them, and all who regarded them with open curiosity quickly turned away.
Even Harper struggled to look at him. Outside the relative safety and privacy of his own quarters, he seemed to exude frigid, hostile darkness. Every movement, every glance was cold and calculated. As much as she did not want to admit it, as much as she tried to recall his strange, small kindnesses toward her, that they were the truth, the real Dimitri; this one nothing more than a façade. This Dimitri scared her. Was she more fearful of him, or the danger they were both in? Harper could not be sure.
In an instant, the hall fell utterly silent and the faelights flickered, casting the room into temporary dimness.
Everybody turned as one to the doors as they opened once more. Even Harper gasped at the dark figure standing in the entrance.
Somehow, Saradon seemed larger than before, his physical appearance enhanced, his presence more imposing. Darkness rippled from him, and a tang of something nauseating filled the air.
“What is that?” Harper asked Dimitri, breathing through her mouth to avoid the worst of it.
“Dark sorcery.” His voice echoed grimly in her mind.
Saradon gazed across the crowd before him, and not one body moved. His attention caught on Harper and Dimitri. Saradon’s predatory smile widened and eyes glittered as he beheld her grandeur. Harper fought back the chills that crawled up her spine.
Saradon prowled forward with languid grace. The crowd parted before him, sinking to the floor to prostrate themselves. Dimitri kept Harper upright.
“We are not so low. I will bow. You must dip.”
With his iron grip securing her arm, she forced herself to curtsey as Saradon approached, holding herself low as Dimitri bowed, neither rising before their master.
“My heir, you are radiant.” Saradon’s smile glittered as he drew close.
Harper froze as he lifted her fingers in his and pressed a cold kiss to the back of her hand.
When she did not answer, he glared at her and turned to survey the crowd prostrated before him. “You may rise,” he said imperiously.
The court hurried to obey.
Saradon tugged Harper forward, raising her hand high. She stiffened at his summons as she tottered forward, her lips tightly clamped together in concentration as she wobbled precariously.
“Behold, the exquisiteness. She is my heir, your princess, your future queen.”
Harper raised her chin and glared down at them all, hiding her fear behind a wall of disdain. It was mirrored back at her from hate-filled eyes.
“You will hold her in the highest esteem, and no word from your lips shall be anything other than her praises,” Saradon warned.
As one, they bowed and curtseyed, but she knew it meant nothing. They will never do anything but despise me. She pushed back thoughts of how difficult it would be to overcome Saradon with no outside support.
Harper’s gaze strayed above the crowd. She could take no more of their unspoken hate. Instead, she gazed at the glass roses curling up the windows, the starry skies beyond.
“I shall have her for the first dance, my lord, if I may,” said Dimitri, appearing at Harper’s other side.
Saradon chuckled, low and deep. “Do not presume above your station, Lord Ellarian. I shall take the first dance with my great-granddaughter, and you may please her afterward.”
Harper blanched as Saradon drew her closer. Music struck up, but she barely heard it over the roaring in her ears, could not see the musicians through the panic clutching at her, darkening her vision. Saradon’s free hand guided hers to his shoulder, then he placed his upon her waist.
She shuddered at his touch, longing to shrink away, but his other hand tightened upon hers, callused, rough hands seeming to bite into her soft skin. Irrationally, she wished for gloves. Anything to remove the feel of him.
He guided her, both his body and magic shaping her movements, into an elegant waltz around the ballroom where none of the smiling, cavorting dancers wanted to be. She felt sick with it, staring at his chest, refusing to look up at his gleaming, violet eyes and leering smile.
The song seemed endless, Harper surviving every second of it by striving to clamp down on the waves of nausea. When at last it ended, and the magic curtseyed her before him as Saradon inclined his head to her, she met his gaze. It was curious, cold, and calculated as he evaluated her.
Dimitri was beside her again. “May I hold you to your promise, sire?” He turned to Harper and bowed, reaching a hand for hers.
“You may.” Saradon sounded displeased, his words short. He turned and strode to the golden throne at the head of the room.
Harper instinctively flinched at his touch as Dimitri swept her into his arms, relaxing a second later as his soft, warm hand enveloped hers, his other gently resting on the small of her back as he stood close, looming over her like a protective shadow.
“You did well,” he murmured into her mind, his voice soft, though he stared at her with a sultry smirk that left nothing to the imagination for everyone watching.
She raised her chin and cocked her head, glaring back at him with a challenge to match. “They despise us.”
She felt his mental shrug. “It matters not.”
“How can we defeat him? No one will help us. They would sooner see us dead.”
“We must find the Dragonhearts, and the way to break his curse, in order to make him as near to mortal as we can, separate him from the power of the Dark One that controls him. I’m sure if we can achieve that, we can survive anything else the world has left to throw at us.”
Harper let her lips curl into a small smirk. “Don’t you ever just want to leave all of this behind? It seems ghastly to me.”
Dimitri chuckled out loud. “You have no idea how much I want that.”
“You could just go.”
His eyes dropped to her, and his mask slipped, showing the seriousness beneath. “Not after the mess I’ve made. I need to fix it.”
“And then?”
“Then I need to atone.”
His voice was so soft she could barely hear it, even in the confines of her own mind, but she did not miss the hard edge to it.
Her attention strayed as he halted them amidst the flurry of dancers. For a moment, they were still. Two black-clad figures, statues of darkness and the void, amongst the flurry of forced life around them.
“I didn’t ask you to stop,” Harper said aloud, more haughtily than she knew she could.
Dimitri snapped out of his reverie and flashed her a wicked grin. “I was lost in your beauty, my lady,” he crooned, sweeping her into a whirl once more.
“Get lost somewhere else,” she snapped.
He laughed. “I can think of plenty of places I’d rather get lost in...” He trailed off, leaving the suggestive hint.
She glared at him, narrowing her eyes, but he only smirked at her, letting his wicked smile widen.
With his company, and the constant flow of heady drinks, she lost herself in the evening, escaping her fears in a never-ending dance, drowning her worries under a waterfall of drink, until she felt like she floated in Dimitri’s arms. He had not left her all evening, for which she was grateful, and no others had approached her to dance. She supposed she ought to be relieved they feared her too much.
“One day, they will realise you are a prize,” Dimitri murmured, his lips b
rushing her ear and sending a shiver through her.
“May it never come.”
He chuckled. “I agree. I’d like to keep you all to myself...” His hand moved from her waist to the small of her back once more, pulling her closer.
Disdainful glances fell upon them both.
“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Harper said daringly, emboldened by the drinks, glaring challengingly at those around her until they dropped their attention.
Dimitri pulled her closer until their bodies touched, and Harper could feel nothing but the heady tingle of inebriation moving through her. Despite the ridiculousness of her outfit, her self-consciousness, her terror at Saradon, who sat upon his throne and watched them all like a hawk, she felt separated from all of her cares, cocooned by the fire raging through her blood.
“Careful,” Dimitri warned her. “Do not let the mask slip.”
As if to mark his words, the doors clanged open once more. Concerned murmurs rang through the room as black-cloaked, hooded figures filed into the room.
Harper felt Dimitri stiffen against her.
“No...,” he breathed.
Nine
Worry gnawed at Landry, and he hammered all the harder for it, beating the bar into the shape of a blade. It was one he would craft but never use, for it was part of the Kingsguard order that he worked to fulfil, even though they had started disappearing from the streets. Their absence was keenly felt, and with much consternation.
Word had come of the new king, of which Landry did not know what to make. An elf from legend, one who ought to be long dead, and their own king now gone. It only fuelled his unease.
It is time. Time to do what he had hoped to avoid.
He had closed for the day, sending his men and boys home to their families. His twins helped tidy the forge, but he dismissed them early, too. There was something about working in the forge alone that lent him comfort and peace after a day of hammering–and worrying.
Eventually, he could dally no more, and though he longed to see his family, as he did every day, for the forge was hard and long work, he dreaded the conversation to come. His wife, Aislin, would not take kindly to it, and sickened with concern as he was, he had no spirit to face her fire.
She greeted him with a tighter hug than usual as he secured the door behind him, feeling, as he usually did those days, that it was not secure enough to keep the troubles of the world at bay.
“You look wretched, my love. Is there trouble?” She stood on her tiptoes to place a soft kiss upon his lips.
“Nothing you ought to worry yourself with.” He rested his chin atop her head for a moment, breathing in her scent with a sigh of relief. Home. He would miss her beyond words.
They ate in near silence, all afflicted by the trouble creeping in. Their mother had already pulled the younger two from schooling–to their frustration, for she had kept them inside all week. Meanwhile, the elder twins had seen their father’s consternation all day at the forge–and the reasons for it. He had already fended off their questions over what was happening.
After dinner, he dismissed the children, though the twins were almost men and protested vociferously, and turned to Aislin, who looked at him expectantly, her forest green eyes dark in the pooling shadows of the winter’s night.
He drew her closer to the fire, where they sank onto the fur rugs before it.
She watched him, waiting.
He ran a hand down his beard, unable to find any decent way to say it, knowing she would not be convinced, but that he had to follow through. His gaze dropped to the floor.
“It’s bad out there, Aislin. Worse than I’ve been letting on, worse than I feared, and I worry this is only the start of it.” He swallowed and met her eyes. “I know you won’t agree, but I’ve made up my mind. I’m sending you and the two young ones away.”
Aislin straightened, defiance flashing through her eyes.
Landry raised his hands in front of him, placating. “I don’t mean to order you around. You know I love you far too much to do that. This is how worried I am. I want to keep you all safe.” He gazed at her imploringly, willing her to understand that it was an impossible choice he did not want to make.
“I won’t leave you,” she said, her voice strong.
“I know you don’t want to. I don’t want you to.” Landry ran his shaking fingers through his hair. “If not for you, for us, then do it for the children. We have to keep them safe. I fear what kind of city this will become without the Kingsguard keeping order and a new, unknown king upon the throne.”
Aislin’s lips parted, but no response emerged. Her brows creased in worry, begging him silently.
“There’s no other way,” he said in a low voice, reaching forward to grasp her slim hands in his great paws. He expected her to pull away, but she grasped him, too.
“I don’t want our family to be parted,” she whispered. “If you think it so imperative, can’t we all go?”
Landry sighed and shook his head. “I’m afraid not. My position... I have men, their families, and the guild relying on me to keep providing them an income, leadership, safety. I need to keep our home and property safe. I need to keep the forges raging and the income coming so I can provide for you, wherever you are. A smith without a forge is nothing better than a beggar, and I will not see you unprovided for.”
He knew the last thought was pride, with a stab of guilt. Pride he would never let her down, never be the disappointment her family had defined him as. If nothing else, he would always provide for her.
“You’ll need the boys,” she said softly, regretfully.
“Yes. The twins are an invaluable help. I couldn’t get by without them. But Tristan must go with you. He can help keep you and Shayla safe.”
Landry closed his eyes. His ten-year-old son, protecting his mother and sister in a kingdom that ought to be safe, yet suddenly seemed perilously balanced upon a knife’s edge. It should not be so.
“I won’t go!” Tristan stood in the doorway behind them.
Landry and Aislin looked over their shoulders, seeing Tristan standing in the doorway, his eyes wide and jaw gaping.
“Son, you don’t know what you speak of,” Landry admonished him gently.
“You can’t send us away!”
“Come, Tris. Sit.” Aislin held out her arms to him, and Tristan edged into the room to sink down by his mother and intertwine his hand in one of hers.
“Tristan,” Landry began, his voice low, deep. “I need your help.”
Tristan looked up at him with wide eyes, the same green as his mother’s, the same smattering of freckles across his nose.
Landry sighed. How to explain this to a child? “Bad things are happening here, and it’s too dangerous to stay. Your mother and sister need to go somewhere safe. The twins and I will have to remain to look after our house and forges, but I need someone to protect your mother and Shayla on the journey. Can you do that for me?”
Tristan’s eyes flickered with uncertainty, and Landry could tell he had been caught off guard.
“I can trust this to no one else, son.”
Tristan nodded jerkily, and Landry heaved a sigh of relief.
“Thank you, Tristan. Now, your mother and I have to speak of private matters. Off to bed with you.” He tousled Tristan’s unruly tangle of chestnut hair as the boy rose, then slipped past him.
Aislin watched him go, her expression unreadable. “Where should we go?” she murmured when he had gone.
Landry turned back to her. “I’m not sure. Your family? Surely they would take you in.” Despite the rift our marriage has caused between her and her parents.
Aislin sighed. “I’m not sure. I suppose we’d have to try. It will be a long journey, though.” Her family lived to the east of the mountains bordering Tournai.
“I can buy horses and more than enough provisions to see you there.” Though with the curfew and the tightening strictness of resources in the city, he felt less confident then he sounded.
It would take days at the least to secure what he would need–days he felt he did not have.
Aislin nodded slowly and shuffled across the furs to slide under his arm, slipping her hands into his once more. She did not need to voice that which remained unspoken between them.
Landry rested his cheek atop her head and closed his eyes, savouring the warmth of her skin on his, knowing it would soon be gone.
Ten
“What’s happening?” Harper asked, her tone shaking with trepidation.
“The Order of Valxiron. It is worse than I feared,” Dimitri replied.
As one, the black-cloaked figures sank to their knees, facing Saradon, and raised their cupped palms to the sky, as if in offering or waiting to receive. Dimitri saw the unmistakable red, four-pointed star upon their chests and in the shadows under their hoods, a crude replica daubed upon their foreheads.
“Is that blood?” Harper unconsciously drew closer to Dimitri. The room was comfortably warm, yet a chill crawled across her.
“Yes.” He pushed away memories of his own head glistening with anointed blood.
“Welcome, friends.” Saradon stood slowly, glowering down at the court before him. “I welcome my old allies, for your Order has left me much to be thankful for. Without your faithful servitude, I would not be here at present.”
Dimitri felt the victorious pride emanating from Saradon. Once more, his gaze passed over the posed members of the Order, offering up their symbolic tribute to him.
“Take your tribute from these poor souls.”
As one, the cloaked figures rose, their bowed heads obscuring all but their chins–men and women alike, Dimitri noticed. There had been few women in his days, but that had clearly changed. They circled the silent hall like wraiths amongst the stricken courtiers. Most watched with open confusion, for few knew of the Order. They were right to fear the unknown. Few looked on with knowing and anger–anger that the Order of outcasts, criminals, and corruption still pervaded.
