Chronicles of Pelenor Trilogy Collection

by Meg Cowley

  “I’m tired, too. Come on. There’s no use staying here. We ought to get a good night’s sleep if we can before it starts anew in the morning.”

  With another stroke of his hand, he opened the door, and they walked into the library. A few moments later, it was as if the room had never been, concealed once more behind the innocuous bookcase. Harper reluctantly draped the blanket over a chair again, shivering as the cold air kissed the bare skin of her shoulders and legs.

  “Is Emyria still awake?” she suddenly asked. “I’ll need her help to get out of this confounded dress.”

  “She won’t be, I’m afraid.” Dimitri sidled closer, a lecherous, provocative grin upon his face. “But I can help you if you’d like,” he purred. “I bet it looks as nice on the floor as it does on you.”

  “Ugh. Don’t you ever stop?” She shoved him and curled a lip. “I’ll manage myself.”

  “Call me if you need anything at all.”

  Harper stormed away without a backwards glance, flicking him a rude gesture, and walked out to the sound of his laughter.

  As she reached her room, the cold had been banished...as had some of the fear, she realised. Is that why he does it? she wondered, struggling with the buttons up her back but refusing to take him up on his offer out of principle and decency.

  Maybe that’s how he gets through all of this. Hiding behind one mask or another. Playing a part. Never facing up to reality. Always running. She could understand it now, having seen a taste of his dark world.

  She suddenly felt cold again at the thought. Tonight, she would sleep with the lights on, for fear grew strong in the dark, and she had to hold it at bay to keep herself from falling apart.

  It was a long while before she could settle enough to sleep, but Harper woke frequently, tearing herself from one nightmare only to fall into another, until one gripped her so hard that she could not escape.

  THE WALL OF FIRE STRETCHED as far as the horizon as the grasslands caught alight. A dry summer and autumn, as well as no rains for winter yet, had left the plains as dry as tinder. Fine tinder the nomads had found the grasses when they charged with the line of fire toward the settlement, their voices ululating as they stormed the unsuspecting villagers. They blended into the dark of night, with their pelts and leathers matching the browns of the earth, only the whites of their eyes catching the moon’s glow.

  Around them, huts burst into gushing flames as the fire hungrily fell on their thatched rooves and quickly spread to the timbers below. Sparks floated on the breeze–beautiful and deadly rain.

  Dawn was coming, but the sun’s fire was no match for theirs. The tribe swept through the village, cutting down panicking, disorientated villagers until the dry earth ran thick with their blood. They spoiled every well, killed every animal, broke any tool or item of use, and made sure the fire took any bit of shelter left. When they were done, only silence and ashes remained.

  The black, smoking plain was death incarnate as the sun rose to illuminate the barren, cursed land. The nomads were long gone. West, ever west, to their next conquest, nothing but scorched earth and carrion left in their wake.

  SHAKING AND DRENCHED in sweat, Harper startled from the nightmare, which seemed more like a vision to her. She somehow instinctively knew that the nightmare was a vision, and that the tribe was the Indis. They were so similar to Erika in garb and mannerisms, and after Saradon’s gleeful promises of their alliance, it could not be a coincidence. But where were the burning plains she had seen?

  Harper’s stomach roiled. She leapt from the bed and ran toward the bathroom, where she vomited into the privy, then stayed kneeling, shaking uncontrollably in the dark.

  What had she seen? Where was it? The sick feeling curling around her would not leave. She had been so close, invisibly floating through their charge. Could it have come to pass long ago? Was it happening at that very moment? Was it something yet to come?

  Her hands gripped the privy seat even tighter at the maelstrom of thoughts within her. She was not sure which was worse–that it might have already happened, or not yet occurred.

  Soft, cool hands gently pulled back the wet, sticky hair on the back of her neck, then one stroked her back, even and reassuring.

  “Breathe, Harper. Breathe through it.” Dimitri’s soft voice emanated from the cool gloom beside her, for she could feel the warmth of his body.

  In contrast, she felt frozen with cold. She pushed down the sickness and breathed as he commanded. Slowly, her shaking lessened, the shuddering of her breath evened. One stroke after another, the soothing pressure of his palm on her back lulled her into peace once more.

  His hand lifted away from her back, his fingers released the knot of hair, and he knelt beside her.

  “I think it was a vision,” she rasped.

  “Show me.”

  She shuddered, but did as he bade, clamping down on the nausea at reliving it.

  He swore softly once she was done. “I fear you are right. Unmistakeably the Indis. Their appearance, their strategy... They leave nothing but scorched earth behind, so nothing may survive there afterward. They are fierce and merciless warriors, used to killing or being killed. Bloody and brutal...and they have no place in our peaceful land.”

  She could hear the anger in his voice. “They are here?”

  “Yes, or close. Either the plains this side of our mountains or those just across it. I fear either.”

  “Will they burn all in their path in Pelenor?”

  Dimitri did not answer.

  “Will they?”

  She could not imagine the horror of such an attack. For all its faults, her small village on the rainy coast of Eastern Caledan was too lowly to note, even for the pirates who plundered the coast. Now she realised just how lucky she had been to never suffer a raid.

  “I will go to Saradon and find out. And beg him to spare the people he promises to save.”

  “You think he will?” Harper sat back on her heels, wrapping her arms around herself in the flowing nightgown as chills raised pimples on her arms.

  Dimitri’s eyes glinted faintly in the gloom. “No, but I must try. Even he must know he cannot burn the Eastfold, and goodness knows what else, and expect to survive in a land with no peoples or food. Gods help us all if he does not see sense and rein them in.”

  What gods? Harper wondered.

  Eleven

  Aedon’s companions shared puzzled glances.

  “What does it mean?” Brand asked, his brows crinkled. The dark königshalle, clearing of the evening’s revellers, cast deep shadows over his face. Behind them, the könig’s throne sat empty, for he and his jarls had long gone to speak of war in a more private place.

  Aedon sighed. “According to the Mother, it means I will find myself back in Tir-na-Alathea. That I’ll make a bargain with the Queen. That She’ll fulfil Her part in it, and I will have no choice but to also do so. It seems like the price is my freedom.”

  Erika scoffed. “We swore we would never return. Why would we be so foolish?”

  Aedon squirmed.

  Ragnar’s eyes narrowed. “You have cause to.”

  Why? was the unspoken word on all their lips.

  “I think so.”

  They waited for him to explain, the hall silent around them, the smouldering fire in the giant hearth spitting out the occasional ember their only company.

  “Saradon was raised with a Dragonheart. Prophecy seems to suggest he will fall with one, too. Dimitrius alluded to the same, but we need more than that. We need knowledge. Five hundred years ago, when Saradon was defeated, it was the woodland realm that helped tip the balance. Their strength and their magic–the Queen’s magic.

  “Alone, I don’t think we can do this. Not in time to save Harper or stop Saradon, who I’m sure has already weakened Valtivar and cripples Pelenor. He has to be stopped before he...Valxiron...grows too powerful. We need answers to understand how to stop him, and knowledge to be able to do so.” His shoulders sank as his head bowed
.

  “You cannot be serious. If you ever set foot there again, they will kill you,” Brand murmured.

  “I don’t have any other answers, and the Mother’s vision shows me that I end up there again, before Her. Maybe She gives us what we need.”

  “You’re willing to possibly throw away your life on a vision that might not even be true? How can you trust the dwarf?”

  Aedon shivered, and not just because the temperature in the hall had sunk. “The vision was real. Trust me.”

  The sights, smells, sounds... Unmistakable.

  “What can the wood elves give us that’s worth your life?”

  Aedon’s finger caressed the aged whorls of the table top. “If the Queen helped once, She can help again. Whether She will might be another matter entirely, but what other option do we have? Pelenor has fallen. Our enemy sits in the seat of power, with Harper by his side having no chance of escape.

  “We have no allies to turn to. Auraria is too far away, and impossible to reach through the realm of Tir-na-Alathea anyway, and there’s no guarantees the high elves would even help. But the Queen...” Aedon sighed. “I’ll admit, She’s an enigma who might kill us as easily as helping us, but She has the power and the knowledge we need.

  “I don’t want to return there.” Aedon shuddered as he admitted it. The screaming, lifeless faces in the dhiran, the living trees that held their prisoners for an eternity, sprang to mind. “But I think the Mother knew. Who else could break Saradon’s Curse? Cast him down? Stop the Dark One from rising anew? There’s got to be a way we can get them–Her–to help.”

  Without paying the ultimate price–losing my head, Aedon thought. It made him squirm. He had no doubt She would be vengeful after his theft of the aleilah potion. It was not the first time he had crossed Her, and he hoped She would not make it the last.

  “Are you sure about this?” Brand asked.

  “No... Yes... No...” Aedon shook his head, raising an imploring look at them all. “Still, I must do it.” His insides squirmed.

  “It will take us weeks to reach the borders of the living forest,” warned Brand. “Would we not be better off journeying to Tournai? Harper is there. We cannot do both.”

  Erika huffed. “And how do we rescue her this time? Toroth was not exactly child’s play, and Saradon is not to be toyed with.”

  Brand glanced at her, a raised eyebrow his only admission of surprise at her restraint.

  She glowered at him. “What? I know when to fight – and when not to. You have seen what he can do. It would be a death wish for all of us.”

  “So might be going to Tir-na-Alathea,” he murmured gravely.

  “I agree with Aedon and Erika,” Ragnar spoke up, earning a surprised glance from them all. “Saradon is definitely our enemy, him and his master. The wood elves might not be our friends, but in this, we are all on the same side. The one that will face Saradon and the darkness he stands for.

  “Look at my kingdom.” Ragnar raised his hands at the empty, lofty hall around them. “On the verge of being destroyed, and gods only hope Saradon will forget us, that we will fall below his scrutiny, for if we face fresh Afnirheims, I cannot see that we will prevail...

  “The woodland Queen might be powerful, and Her borders may be protected, but She will recognise what once threatened Her threatens again. She will not want to see Her realm burn. We have a common enemy, but you must work hard to ensure She sees that before She punishes you...which I have no doubt She will be quick to do.”

  Aedon’s ears pricked, and he narrowed his eyes at Ragnar. “You? Not we?”

  Ragnar met his troubled gaze with a grave expression. “I cannot go with you, friends. Not this time.”

  They all stirred at his words, and Brand ruffled his wings.

  “What do you mean?” Erika asked cautiously.

  Ragnar closed his eyes for a moment, then hefted a deep sigh. “I need to remain here, with my kin. It is time for me to stop running from my duty.” He was quiet for a moment. “My people have suffered a great blow, and my könig needs every dwarf he can get for the coming battles–and the rebuilding and healing afterward. I cannot in good conscience leave them. Not like this.”

  Aedon shook his head in disbelief. “Are you sure this is the right thing?”

  “Yes.” Ragnar’s calm, measured glare was unflinching. “I will fight with them and recover with them, then renounce every claim I have here–possessions, titles, land. I’ll then consider my debt paid and myself a free dwarf. I won’t live with anyone’s expectations or duties except my own.”

  A slow smile crept across Aedon’s face, and he clapped Ragnar on the shoulder. “I’m proud of you, brother. You always did stand up for what you believed in. We’ll miss you, though.”

  “It won’t be forever. Before you know it, I’ll be back to whip you into shape.” Ragnar grinned, his eyes crinkling with the depths of contentment at his choice.

  They raised their tankards as one and toasted. For Ragnar. For Harper. For their new, impossible task–to secure the alliance of the woodland realm, and the Queen who would sooner see Aedon dead than fight alongside him.

  Twelve

  Saradon presided over a deathly silent council chamber. The room felt too small to Harper, who stood shoulder to shoulder with Dimitri at Saradon’s side. It was crowded with the high council, though a few seats were empty, their owners not surviving the change of regime–or Toroth’s madness.

  Outside their ranks, encircling the room like an ominous set of jaws, stood the Order of Valxiron. Two deep they stood, even though there was not enough room for them all to comfortably stand inside the chamber.

  It had felt like Harper walked to certain doom as she strode in with Dimitri, both dressed in black from head to foot. This dress was far more chaste than the midnight-coloured gauze she had worn to the ball.

  This was strength in fabric form. Clean lines, pointed shoulders, thick, unswaying fabric that fell to the floor. Unadorned, yet fine. It felt like a gown of armour, and that was how Harper wore it, as if it could keep away the fear of what new hell they would live through that day.

  Her heart pitter-pattered with her racing nerves as she stood ramrod straight and utterly still next to Dimitri. They did not touch. Here, he did not dare brush up against her for a momentary reassurance. Here, the masks were on once more.

  She relished hiding behind her arrogant sneer now. It gave her something to concentrate on whilst she forced down the roaring in her ears, the tremoring of her hands–now clasped firmly before her–and the fear roiling in her stomach.

  Though he did not touch her, their minds stayed connected, a mental reassurance, and she could feel the unexpected flicker of surprise rippling through him as he scoured those before them. She noticed where his eyes fell. Elves, standing tall and proud, wore the four-pointed red star upon their breasts–the same mark the Order bore on their cloaks.

  A prickle of unease ran through her.

  These people were strangers to her, yet she knew Dimitri recognised them. Was surprised, and a little unnerved, to see where their true allegiance lay. He had told her that the Order infiltrated everything, like an insidious weed. Members hidden in the fabric of society. At its bottom and its top, they both now realised. What did that mean? Harper pushed aside the thought. She was not sure she wanted to know.

  “The Kingsguard are gone. Dead, fled, or in disarray,” Saradon sneered. “It matters not, for we did not need them, or their corruption, anyway. The Order will rise where they fall.” He cast an appraising glance at their companions, who even in the warming confines of the hall, remained cloaked and hooded, so only their jawlines, and the stern set of their mouths, could be seen.

  “With the Order presiding, one rule will serve. Dissent will be quashed, though I am certain there will be none. The Order will become as deeply ingrained in our fair capital as the Kingsguard once was. Every boy or male from every household in the city, save for those in a trade, will be taken as Acolyte. W
e will need our trades now that the passes have been reopened to allow goods to flow in and out of Pelenor.”

  He looked around, as though expecting thanks, congratulations, cheers that he had somehow overcome the goblin scourge, released the stranglehold they had on the country’s lifelines. At the silence that greeted him, his lips thinned, but he continued.

  “Under my rule and the Order’s discipline, Pelenor will grow stronger, expand. My lands will one day reach from coast to coast, then beyond.”

  A tingle of premonition and fear ran down Harper’s spine at the memory of Erendriel’s prophecy, and Saradon’s own scrying. She forced herself to remain still.

  “Conscription will be necessary at first, so that when we strengthen, our forces will be feared throughout the world.” Saradon glanced at the Order surrounding them. “Though any willing shall be able to join their ranks. I see there are already some disciples amongst you.” His wolfish smile turned upon the council standing before him, at those who carried the Order’s mark.

  “My own second is a graduate.” Harper felt Dimitri stiffen beside her. She knew he would hate to be linked to it now. “But, alas, he is needed for other tasks in the wars to come. You.” He pointed. “What is your name and rank?”

  “Lord Khyrion Vortigern Amel of House Tiron, sire. I was the king’s tithe taker.” Khyrion’s black eyes slid momentarily to Dimitri, then back to Saradon, before he stooped into a low bow.

  “Rise,” murmured Saradon. “And in the Order?”

  Khyrion glanced around, as if unsure he should speak of the Order’s business before others. Saradon nodded his encouragement.

  “I am the Fifth Grandmaster.”

  “Who is the First?”

  “Dead. Burned by the king for treason. Though not the right treason.”

  Saradon chuckled darkly. “Then I elevate you to the position of First.” A flutter of movement rippled through the cloaks of the Order surrounding them, but no one spoke. “Serve me well, and you will be rewarded. You know what is expected from you.”