Heart of Dragons

by Meg Cowley

  The king told him a list of names. Dimitri knew all of them.

  “What is their crime, Your Majesty?” He knew a few had committed minor infractions...at worst, embezzlement. He clutched at smoke to imagine what they might have done that had angered Toroth.

  What have I missed? He wracked his brain but could find nothing.

  “That is none of your concern.” Toroth could, or would, not tell him.

  Dimitri was not sure which was worse, but relief flooded him. It’s not me. That was followed by horror. What is he planning?

  “They will all be arrested on the morrow, at dawn’s break.”

  It would be easy. All were present in Tournai to celebrate the five-hundredth anniversary of Saradon’s defeat.

  “What do you require of me, sire?” It sounded as though Toroth had his plot well in hand, whatever it was. Dimitri both did and did not want to know what it was.

  “You shall plant convincing evidence in all their homes to suggest they are supporters of Saradon and seek to revive his mission.”

  Cold flooded Dimitri as the missing piece of the puzzle clicked into place. It seemed even the breeze stalled at his realisation, for the cold flicker of air had ceased. “You will frame them of this for what end?”

  Toroth glared at Dimitri for questioning him, but he answered. “Two birds and one stone. Criminals are punished, and national pride is restored. That is all you need to know.” But you will do my dirty work for me, the unspoken implication followed.

  Dimitri bowed smoothly, betraying nothing of his hammering heart or the dread coursing through him. He could read between the lines.

  This was nothing more than greed. Toroth wanted their assets and would stop at nothing to obtain them. He knew he could not bleed the country dry through more taxes and risk a revolt. In framing them, Toroth would bolster his own coffers. This way, he could raise his support and his riches. Who would question him?

  At the first mention of Saradon, the accused would be abandoned by all they knew and loved. Distanced, defamed, disowned. On such a critical anniversary of the fall of Saradon and the salvation of Pelenor, this would serve to raise Toroth’s support. He would be the saviour of Pelenor, keeping the kingdom safe from evil, and him utterly beyond reproach.

  Toroth was no fool. Dimitri wondered how long the king had planned this. He felt sick to his stomach, but the nausea had nothing to do with the drinking or the dancing.

  “Well?” Toroth snapped at his silence.

  Dimitri shifted his weight, choosing his words with care. “They will be killed?”

  “For such treason, yes.”

  “What have they done to deserve it?”

  Toroth scowled at him. “Your place is not to ask such questions. It is your duty to do my bidding.”

  Your dirty work, Dimitri thought, but he dared not say it.

  “Can I count on you, or will you be alongside the traitors?” It would mean nothing to the king to have him rounded up, as well.

  Dimitri held back the swallow that would betray him. “Of course, Your Majesty,” he murmured. “I am yours to serve.” He executed a smooth bow and stayed, bent low, his back as straight as a rod.

  “Good. You have the night.” The king did not acknowledge him further. Toroth strode away, back to the ballroom. For a moment, the corridor became an even darker black. Once his shadow left the doorway, a column of light and warmth spilled out. But Dimitri did not wish to rejoin it.

  He softly called a name, and the figure melted out of the darkness beside him.

  “You heard all that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dimitri paused, his heart heavy. It was already done, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. “Make it so, by the king’s orders.”

  There was no answer, just a rustle of movement as his informant disappeared into the night. Dimitri closed his eyes and turned his face to the cold sky as his heart quickened once more and the familiar feeling of panic tightened his chest and rushed through his veins.

  He took deep, deliberate breaths, but the fire in his blood raced through him until his hands shook with it. He folded his arms across his chest, but they felt frail and useless. They could not protect him from what he would have to do in the name of Toroth.

  Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

  He forced himself to continue, trying to block it all out and send away each care with the breeze, like a seed floating on the wind, but it did not work.

  For a wild moment, he wondered what it would be like for the accusations to be true. For Saradon’s mission to be alive, perhaps even for Saradon to return. Such an impossible thought. Or was it? Perhaps the king did fear that. Dimitri could not know what Toroth’s mind held, but it seemed to be only selfishness and greed.

  Hate spiked in him. The riven circle sprang to mind – the Mark of Saradon. The broken wheel. This wheel needed to be broken, just as Saradon had sought, and Dimitri wished he were not so powerless. The king was a law unto himself, and his kingdom, sweet Pelenor, bled for it.

  Dimitri could not linger any longer. His absence would soon be noted. He returned to the festivities, each step taking all the effort he had, but he was no longer a part of the merriment. He felt cut off, as though doused in a cold blast that even the magic of this place could not penetrate.

  The bland indifference he schooled his expression into was only possible with his years of practice, but rage burned underneath it. It was an inferno that crescendoed with the music humming through them all, until all he could hear was the sound of his blood drumming in his ears.

  The king was in the midst of the throng, laughing and making merry – with one of those who was to die, Dimitri noted – as though there were nothing wrong or untoward. Dimitri looked at the king’s companion, knowing he had less than a day to live. He had no doubt Toroth would make a spectacle of them all. It was an unsettling feeling to possess such foresight.

  Dimitri watched the man jest with the king. As pleasured as he felt now, he would be in a world more pain as he met his end in one of the most unpleasant ways imaginable. He would be made a scapegoat for an imaginary crime. His land and all his assets would be seized. He would die for nothing except greed. His name and his line after him would be forever shamed for something of which he had never been guilty.

  Nausea rose in Dimitri. Informing on legitimate crimes was one thing, but this was going a step too far. Already, his soul felt blackened with the knowledge of what it was to commit. Had already committed. The order had been given. Dimitri was already guilty, stained. And yet he had done it and would do it again, as he did everything that was asked of him, no matter the cost to his own soul.

  Why do I do it? he asked the enchanted stars, but they held no answers. Neither did he. Did he truly have no choice? Cannot break this. Cannot get out.

  Panic flooded him once more. It rose with the rage and nausea, a maelstrom engulfing him until his senses were overwhelmed and he could not see the ballroom before him. Everything collapsed inward, trapping him, confining him.

  Dimitri fled, stumbling in his haste, into the cool gardens under the real stars and moonlight, to a dark corner that matched his soul, where no one could see him fall apart.

  In the darkness, alone, he gave in to the panic, unleashing his desperate hold on it in relief. But the moment of peace did not last. Before he could take another breath, before the sweet scent of honeysuckle was barely in his nostrils, hands slid around his waist.

  Blinded by rage and panic, he spun around and slammed the body up against the wall, but then the familiar perfume teased him. His vision cleared, and Dimitri realised it was Rosella.

  His rage slackened and his face paled. He loosened his grip, horrified, and tried to back away, but she held him all the tighter. Even in the darkness, he saw how her eyes glittered with the absence of wit. How much had she drunk?

  Too much, as always.

  She pulled him closer, the drink-fuelled lust clear to see. He raged against that, too, as an
ger clouded his vision once more. How shallow, gluttonous, and selfish they all were. Beyond the brink, he gave in to the beast within him, crushing his lips against hers. Anything to block it all out, burn through it.

  His tongue slipped into her mouth, urgent and seeking, and she responded in kind, tugging him clumsily to the rose bushes and an even more private corner. Her hands slipped to his breeches, tugging the laces, grazing across him until he throbbed, filled with the need for relief. Without thinking, he found his hands halfway up her thighs, her skirts gathered up, and pushed her back against the carved hedges, clenching his fingers around her soft buttocks.

  She squealed and squirmed in his grasp, and he smelt it before he saw it.

  Blood... Have I...

  Had he cut her somehow? Been too rough? The maelstrom within him stilled as his own blood seemed to drain away until he was cold to his core, despite the garden’s warmth. Then he espied it. Blood upon her arm.

  The thorns. A thorn nicked her skin. Not me.

  She was already over the moment. Drunk and giggling, she pulled him closer, but his rage and panic had faded, replaced with shame and confusion. Stammering apologies, he dropped the silken fabric and staggered backwards. Crumpled, it covered her, but she was like a crushed rose now, the scrunched fabric scarred.

  Gods only know what her father will think.

  Then again, she was so inebriated, she might not even remember what had happened.

  With the barest thought, he healed the cut upon her milky skin, and before she could entangle him again, he slipped into the shadows and fled.

  Eight

  Away from the overwhelmedness of the ball – and Rosella – it was far easier to clear his head. Dimitri fled blindly, the taste of Rosella still upon his lips, until he finally stopped, far away from the noise and light. He was surprised to find himself in the royal gallery. A stroke of something unearthly ran down his spine.

  What brought me here?

  He walked across the smooth floor with his eyes closed, slowing his breathing, filling his lungs with clean, cool air. Here, it was not polluted with drink, food, sweat...and the scent of greed. There was only darkness and silence.

  Why do I do it?

  Rosella’s face swam before his mind’s eye. He envied them, but the more he acted like the rest of them, the more he hated himself for it. It was like his personal brand of torture. He pushed thoughts of her away. No doubt he would go to her later – he always did – but he relished this moment of reprieve.

  He stopped and opened his eyes. Dimitri stood once more before the portrait of Saradon. Not the meek, sitting study, but the one of fire and might as Saradon stood tall, wreathed in flame and darkness. He seemed even more foreboding in the dark gallery, and the stillness of the air, the utter silence, seemed to muffle even Dimitri’s racing heart.

  But not his mind. That was as sharp as a razor, unclouded by the drink that corrupted the rest of them.

  This is an opportunity.

  The king conspired to commit the ultimate sin in his greed. Dimitri could not imagine a more horrific way to punish those who had not done anything wrong, save for the usual pettiness of the court. They were all as bad as the king, but Toroth was the worst of them all. The sum of their sins.

  Once Dimitri’s panic and rage ebbed, he could see the potential. It would not be easily done, yet perhaps it were more possible than ever. The Kingdom of Pelenor had bled for years, but the king had not staunched the wounds. Money. Men. Never-ending tithes and taxes to fund his lavish lifestyle, his meaningless conquests.

  He would not be the only one who desired Toroth to fall. Indeed, as his spymaster, Dimitri knew exactly who sought that end, if only for their own greed.

  Now it is time to use that knowledge, he thought for the first time. A sudden wave of clarity rushed through him, cleansing his mind. How can I do it?

  He stared into Saradon’s frozen gaze, as if the painting could tell him. Saradon had done it. The half-elf with no magic had nearly crippled the kingdom.

  How? Dimitri asked, but no answer came.

  Perhaps it would be as simple as exploiting those who sought Toroth’s downfall. Bribery, extortion, threats. Dimitri rankled at that. Such things were beyond even his nature, though he did it daily for the king’s bidding. Perhaps it would not be so bad, for the greater good. Perhaps he could band them together, united on a common front, though they should hate him, regardless of his part in their greatest desires. Dimitri could not bring himself to that end, either. To do all that and still be hated.

  No, perhaps Saradon had the best idea of all – to break the wheel. Dimitri could see Saradon’s Mark, the riven circle, burning bright upon his chestplate, as though it were living flame itself.

  That is beyond me.

  He was so close, but he did not have the assets, men, and alliances needed. He sighed. He would be hard-pressed to find the former, and it would be nigh on impossible to secure the latter.

  Moonlight bloomed across the shining floor, illuminating him where he stood amongst the inky shadows, casting its glow onto the feet of the canvas before him. Dimitri froze.

  Within the portrait itself, in the crystal raised before Saradon, the smallest glittering called him closer. Lifelike painting, Dimitri thought, but the way it twinkled... Paint does not have such properties. He silently stepped forward. Tucked inside the faceted surface of the illustrated crystal, he saw runes, faintly glowing blue and silver.

  Lunar runes.

  He had seen few before. These were old and fading. It was a wonder he had noticed them at all. If the moon had not shone at that precise angle, at that precise moment, he would have seen nothing.

  Could he read them? Dimitri bent closer. The alphabet sprung into focus, and he murmured the runes aloud. They were scripted in the elven tongue of Auraria. What is Aurarian doing...here? And, more importantly, what do the runes say? They were too subtle to be graffiti, that was clear. These had been painstakingly included. If they were to only be visible by the light of the moon, they must have held some weight. And yet, he doubted they had been put there with Toroth’s knowledge or permission...or the same of any monarch beforehand.

  “‘The Heart of a Dragon shall resurrect him. The Heart of a Dragon will cast him down...’ That makes no sense.” Dimitri frowned at the cryptic message. As he stepped back and glanced at the painting in its entirety, he noted where the runes were written. On an illustration of a Dragonheart.

  Who would go through so much effort in order to leave a nonsense message? There must be more to it. What am I missing?

  “The Heart of a Dragon shall resurrect him. The Heart of a Dragon will cast him down.” Was it literal? He was not familiar with the intimate details of Saradon’s legends, only that the Dragonhearts had been used to make his power far greater than it ever would have been otherwise.

  Dimitri did not know much about the Dragonhearts, either, other than they had fabled powers, but he was not privy to what those were.

  Perhaps they are far more powerful than ever I realised. No wonder the king hoards them, keeping them under ward and key.

  He fleetingly wished he could get his hands on one, but it would be an impossible task. No one, save Toroth himself, accessed the king’s hoard. He dismissed the idea as soon as he thought it, though a small part of his brain continued to mull over the prospect, reluctant to give up so easily.

  Dimitri had often found there was a way to achieve anything. It just required ingenuity and determination...and more than a little measure of luck. Perhaps this is where I find my match. Dimitri did not like to chance failure, or Toroth’s cruel ruthlessness.

  Clouds scudded across the moon once more. The runes faded before Dimitri’s eyes, but they were etched into his memory, and his heart burned with a fire he had never allowed to grow so much before. The spymaster, the forgotten son, the outcast... He did not know how he would make it come to pass, but he vowed he would. This was the moment he had waited for all his life. He could
see the stars aligning now, almost in place, dancing together.

  Dimitri looked into Saradon’s eyes. I am going to finish your work. I am going to take down the king. I am going to break the wheel.

  Nine

  “They’re here,” Brand growled. He crouched and drew his huge blade with a quiet hiss.

  Erika, Aedon, and Ragnar spread out to form an arc, each drawing their own weapons.

  The canyon was the perfect place for an ambush, yet it was the only pass through the mountains to their destination. The elves of Tir-na-Alathea knew it as well as they.

  Aedon could feel them skulking nearby, but their magic flowed strangely. He could not pinpoint it. “Be careful. They have wards up. I cannot tell where they are – or when they will strike.”

  Granite cliffs soared on either side of them, reaching up into the mountain mists. The eerie silence held, only broken by their breath and the crunch of their feet upon the rocky track as they shifted their weight. Aedon’s gaze darted around, flitting from one point to another. He knew his companions would also be looking for any trace of their pursuers.

  He reached inside his breast and tugged out the small, cloth-wrapped prize. “Keep it, Brand. If all else fails, take to the skies.”

  The hulking Aerian grasped it and tucked it inside his own pouch for safekeeping. “We ought to keep moving. No point sitting here like lambs waiting for slaughter.”

  They moved swiftly and quietly, loping through the canyon. The scattering of pebbles and the crunch of their feet upon the ground seemed painfully loud.

  When it came, the attack was silent.

  “Unh!” Brand staggered forward with the weight of the impact through his wing. He whirled around, roared, and charged at the male elf swinging down the cliff toward them, his bow in one hand and a quiver of arrows strapped to his hips.

  Aedon saw the bloodlust already running in Brand’s eyes, for his friend felt no pain from the shot. Without stopping, Brand snapped the shaft of the arrow and tugged it free. He did not seem to notice blood pulsing from the wound, blighting his golden brown feathers. In one fluid movement, he swept his blade at the elf just as he landed on the ground before them.