by Meg Cowley
With practised hands, she strung the bow and drew it a few times, testing its strength. The limb bent silently in her hands. This bow is well made, she noted appreciatively, though she could feel it was stronger than her own.
She turned slowly, scanning the woods and spotting a rotten log. A soft and easy target. In quick succession, she shot the three arrows at it, straight into the target. Thump. Thump. Thump.
She retrieved them, wiping the damp, rotting matter from the shafts and tips with the hem of her cloak. After retreating farther away, she shot again, adjusting to make her mark. Twice more she repeated it, until she was sure she could hit what she wanted.
Once more, she rustled through the undergrowth and bent low to pull the arrows from the stump. It was time to commence the real hunt.
“What is a girl like you doing in the woods so far from...anything?” a deep voice drawled.
Harper whirled around as her heart thundered into life and adrenaline flooded her system, nearly falling in her haste to right her balance. Without thought, the bow was raised and drawn, an arrow nocked and pointed at the stranger.
If she had considered Aedon handsome, he was one of the most perfect males she had ever laid eyes on. He cocked his head as they appraised each other.
His build was taller and slimmer, more athletic than Aedon, and his glowing skin much paler, which was a stark contrast against his dark, cropped hair. He wore the finest garments she had ever seen. They made Lord Denholme’s wardrobe look like rags. And made him all the more imposing. Violet eyes set under dark brows challenged her.
Thump. Thump. Thump. It was no longer the sound of the arrows, but her own heart pounding.
Pointed ears, she noted with a flash of something too fast to recognise. Fear? He’s an elf!
He was utterly out of place in the midst of the woods, not a speck of dirt or dust upon him. Yet he nonchalantly leaned against a tree, betraying no fear of her or the weapon currently pointed at him.
Why isn’t he scared?
“Stay back! I’ll shoot.”
He smiled, but it was a dark, predatory smile that set her nerves on edge.
“Who are you?” Her voice rang through the deserted trees.
His smile widened even further, as if he could hear the edge of fear in her voice. He pushed off the tree and took a step toward her.
It only took a moment.
Her fingers slipped from the string reflexively. Her arrow flew true. Harper screamed, somehow knowing he was dangerous, hoping they would hear. In a split second, his hand waved before him and the arrow vanished.
“That was rude,” he hissed at her. As he advanced, flames flickered in his open palms.
Harper nocked another arrow. Her blood sang with fear and tension, and the shaft wobbled against the string. She knew it was hopeless, but she was determined to go down fighting.
Twenty-One
It teased him.
Dimitri had lost count of the days. Sunset blended into sunrise, one after another after another, before he finally found some trace of what he sought. A tantalisingly tiny tendril of power snaked toward him at his summoning.
He rolled the twig between his fingers, casting a glance of utter disdain and boredom at Raedon, who lectured them all on strategy for that day’s hunt. Dumb brutes. Yet, inside, his blood held a tingling current of energy, his excitement longing to spring him into action.
Patience.
He knew it was the key. The very last thing he wanted was for them to find it. He had to get there first. Get away from this accursed dank forrest, and the Winged Kingsguard, and back to civilisation. With his prize.
Dimitri suppressed the urge to abandon the tree that was his shelter. Even there, the morning drizzle was inescapable.
He raised his hand in mock salute as Raedon cast a look of dislike toward him. Radeon scowled and turned away. The rest followed, mounting their grumbling dragons. No one liked the cold here. They were not that far north of Tournai, and yet, with no home comforts, it was a harsh and brazen environment far from the luxury even the dragons were accustomed to.
Dimitri did not show one whit of discomfort, slouching on the rock as though it were the most comfortable pile of cushions in his chambers. In reality, he struggled not to shiver as the pine boughs dripped their cold morning dew down the back of his neck.
When they left, wheeling off into the sky in formation – which he had to admit was impressive, despite his own dislike of them – he slowly stood and ambled away, as if on a relaxed morning jaunt. Leisurely. Casual. Random.
It was only when they were all out of sight that he raced into the void, slipping into nothingness upon the breeze to chase that faint scent of magic.
Closer and closer he yanked it, hungrily seeking. The trace grew steadily stronger until it seemed everywhere, so powerful was it, forcing him to slow. No longer could he track it at speed. He stepped into the world again and found himself at the edge of a small clearing, staring at a girl.
She had not noticed him, too busy bending down in the wet undergrowth, grunting. He squinted, trying to see what she was doing. Pulling arrows. And she was no girl. As she stood and wiped off the glinting heads of her arrows, he saw how tall her folded frame was.
They were far from anywhere he knew. What was she doing there? His curiosity piqued. Was it a coincidence? He was not sure he believed in them. A chance meeting with a strange young woman in the midst of magical energy roaring around them.
It tugged at him. It was as if, out of the vaults, the Dragonheart’s essence had spread out over a much wider footprint. One he hoped the dragon-riders would not chance upon.
“What is a girl like you doing in the woods so far from...anything?” he drawled, leaning against the knobbed bark of a tree.
She spun, freezing at the sight of him.
Almost faster than he could see, an arrow pointed straight at his throat. The seconds seemed like an age as he dragged his gaze up and down her body, taking in every detail.
She knew how to handle a bow, that was certain, but she was so painfully thin, he knew she had no real strength to her. Even without magic, he could crush her with ease. Her gaunt cheeks attested to starvation, and the hungry glint in her eyes had flickered with fear the moment she beheld him. That pleased him. Even if she had no idea who he was, she would quail before him. As she should. He could feel her heart tremoring as if his hand pressed against her chest.
“Stay back! I’ll shoot.” He could hear the edge of shrill fear in her voice.
He smiled a dark, predatory smile, and he could see it unnerved her further. Her shoulders tensed, and her fingers tightened on the bow and string.
“Who are you?”
Her voice echoed. Whoever she was, she was alone. And the Dragonheart was close. He felt it, pulsing through him. Could she feel it? He sensed a taint of magic upon her blood, but she did not sing of power. One way or another, he would find out if she knew something.
Dimitri’s smile widened. He pushed off the tree and took a step toward her.
Her fingers slipped from the string, and her arrow flew toward him just as her shrill scream split the air. By reflex alone, Dimitri waved a hand before him. The arrow vanished into nothingness.
Annoyance spiked. She was either dangerous or stupid. He did not care for either. “That was rude,” he hissed, and as he advanced, flames flickered in his open palms.
The girl nocked and drew another arrow. Her lank, brown hair was tucked behind her ear to afford herself a clear view. Dimitri noticed that ear was slightly pointed. Oh yes, she definitely had magic in her blood. Elf blood? Panic and defiance fought within her eyes. Her blood sang of fear and tension, and the arrow’s shaft wobbled against the string.
He decided it would do him no good to scare the life out of her just yet. Dimitri paused, just far enough away that she stilled, clearly holding back her shot, though she did not lower the bow.
“I am Dimitrius Vaeri Mortris of House Ellarian.”
&
nbsp; Nothing. Not a flicker of recognition at his name or that of his House. Who is this peasant? She must be from far away if she had not heard of him.
“Who are you?” He glared at her, fixing her in his stare like prey. He could tell how reluctant she was to fight him, though she had clearly recognised he was some kind of threat.
She remained silent.
“Come now,” he said with honeyed venom in his tone. “I told you my name. It is only courteous to return the gesture.”
Crashing erupted through the bushes behind him. “Harper!” a male shouted, but Dimitri distinctly heard several figures approaching.
The fire in his palm flickered and died, then erupted again, three times as big, when he saw who approached.
“You!” Dimitri snarled.
The elf stopped before him in incredulity, staring between him and the girl. He bounded toward her and faced him. A protector. She relaxed, the bow slipping from its aim at Dimitri’s chest.
“I never thought I would see your face again,” the elf spat at him.
Dimitri’s lip curled. “The pleasure is not mine, I assure you. I see the company you keep has fallen.” He scoured them all, a ragtag band of misfits. A dwarf, an Aerian, and two ragged women? “Aedon Lindhir Riel of House Felrian...or do you just go by Aedon the Thief nowadays?”
“None of your damn business, spymaster.”
The title was an insult, but it rolled off Dimitri’s back. He had suffered worse. His hands returned to his pockets, the picture of relaxation. He would show no fear.
“Who is your friend?” He glanced at the woman Aedon had called Harper. What does an elf like Aedon want with her? His other companions had clear worth – armed to the hilt and exuding weaponary competence. But this girl was a wraith who did not fit.
“Nobody.” Aedon shifted to close her off from him, hiding her behind his broad shoulders.
Dimitri shrugged. It would not do to show his interest in any of them. “I’ll leave you to your miserable existence then. I have more pressing places to be. A pleasure to meet you, Harper.” He smiled mockingly at her. She returned it with a scowl.
Dimitri vanished into smoke and wind. His heart hammered. What have I stumbled upon? The disowned son of House Felrian. A ragtag band of outlaws. A strange girl who fit nowhere. And somewhere tantalisingly close lay the Dragonheart. How are they all connected?
He was only certain of one thing. This was definitely not a coincidence.
As he flitted away, he cast a spell of concealment across the entire valley. No one would be able to detect the Dragonheart until he had gotten to the bottom of the matter himself.
THAT NIGHT, AFTER RAEDON and his riders returned, Dimitri stared him down. “It’s none of your business where I have been or what I have done,” Dimitri reminded the leader. “You report to me, not the other way around.”
Raedon scowled. When he did, Dimitri let his smirk show. The resemblance was uncanny. It had been so many years since he had seen Aedon, but he was still the mirror image of his brother, Raedon.
“What?” snapped Raedon as he tore off his helm and unclasped his cape.
“Oh, nothing,” Dimitri replied airily and sauntered away.
Now, at least, he had a reason to stay in the damp, miserable valley.
Twenty-Two
Any goodwill Harper had toiled for from them vanished in the instant they had seen Dimitrius. Even Aedon was now slightly suspicious of her. It was too much to believe none of it was connected. The Heart of Dragons, the strange girl, and him. Annoyance and dislike spiked in Aedon at the thought of Dimitrius.
It was against Aedon’s instinct to remain in their present location for that night, but it was the most defensible position they had against Dimitrius or the Tir-na-Alathean elves. No matter the consequences, he would not have them wandering blind through the dark woods, possibly to be picked off one by one.
Why? The question repeated itself, crescendoing in his mind until it was all Aedon could think of. Dimitrius owed them less than nothing. Indeed, it would serve his own gain, and pleasure, to turn them all in. Why did he spare us? How did he find us? Harper? Do they somehow know each other? It made no sense.
Against every fibre of his better judgment, they made camp in a small dell in the crook of a lazy stream that wended its way across the plains. They worked in silence, a heavy cloud of hostility hanging above them all.
HARPER GATHERED KINDLING, troubled by their unexplained coldness toward her...and the strange encounter with the even stranger elf.
Dimitrius Vaeri Mortris of House Ellarian...
His name was a song on her tongue, and those violet eyes burned through her. She shook off the shiver they brought and quickly glanced around. It felt like he still watched her, but he had vanished, and Aedon had thrown up every ward he knew around their camp. They were safe from whatever hunted them.
But perhaps not from him. What did he want with her? To have appeared precisely there and then... Harper had begun to believe less and less in coincidences. He found her somehow. She was not entirely convinced he would not do it again.
She returned to camp hastily. The woods seemed to close in around her, so she crashed through the brush more noisily than she ought to. The growing darkness was a threat looming over her shoulder.
She joined Ragnar at the fire, whilst Erika butchered the couple rabbits they had found that day. Luckily, for Harper’s hunt had yielded nothing but questions and danger. Soon, the dark meat bubbled away in a stew with some root vegetables the likes of which Harper had not seen before – purple carrots and potato-like tubers the size of her head with the bizarre appearance of ginger.
As they sat to eat, Harper bit into the rich, lean meat appreciatively, savouring the gravy and listening to Aedon’s latest tale of grandeur and adventure, for he had already wolfed his down, as seemed to be a habit.
Harper lowered her gaze back to her bowl when she noticed the rest of the group's attention on her. Even Aedon stared intently.
"You told us a story last night, so it's my turn tonight. Let me tell you a tale from Pelenor of nightmares and monsters..." Aedon's voice dropped into a lower cadence as he hunched closer to the fire. "Let me tell you the tale of Saradon."
He watched her like a hawk, determined to divine her. He would catch her tell, if she had one. He would find out, one way or another, if she knew of Saradon, the mark she bore on her charm, the court of Pelenor – or that son of the House of Ellarian.
The fire threw flickering shadows across his face, morphing the handsome visage into a caricature of light and shadow that delved under his hood. His eyes were faint glimmers in the darkness. Harper instinctively leaned closer.
The fire felt warm on her front, but the cold shadows trailed across her back. They left lingering shivers rippling across her skin as the hair on the back of her neck rose with anticipation. She could not help but be drawn in by his promise of a dark tale.
"Saradon was one of the king’s many cousins, a half-elf born to an elven mother and a human father, a princeling of the Realm of Pelenor, who would make it even more strong and prosperous in the coming years. Saradon was born amidst much glory and celebration, but alas, something was wrong. Saradon was not as he ought to have been."
Aedon paused and met each of their gazes in turn. The others, who had heard the tale many times before, sat back. Brand cleaned his weapon, Erika patched up her cloak, and Ragnar picked morsels of meat from his teeth. Harper leaned forward, breathless with anticipation.
"Saradon was half-elf by blood, yet he possessed no magic."
Again, Harper wondered why this was so critical for Pelenor, unable to shake the fact that magic could not really be that important if an entire nation of mortals in Caledan survived without it.
"No...magic," Aedon repeated, shaking his head. "Of course, it was the greatest shame of the kingdom when word spread that the blood of the royal line was tainted thusly. What could have caused it? Was the babe cursed? Was the very blood
of the king, perhaps the king himself, cursed? Rumours grew, spreading like wildfire and changing just as rapidly, until all the Kingdom of Pelenor, and even farther afield, had heard of the cursed child filled with anti-magic.
"Of course, Saradon was just a boy. He was not evil. He was smart and gifted, for all his mortal limitations. He heard the tales, though his mother tried to protect him from them. She loved her boy more than all the world and did not want him to be hurt.
“Healers were sent for. The finest mages in all the kingdom were called. The greatest elven minds were summoned. Yet no cure could they find, for he suffered no affliction. Random chance, they called it. Ill fortune. He was both a miracle and an anomaly.
"His mother loved him all the same, desperate to protect her child from the hurt and sorrow she knew would find him as time marched on. His father was not so kind, giving all his attention to Saradon's siblings, who were as half-elves ought to be – brimming with power. Saradon was hidden away, the shame of his family and the royal bloodline.
"Saradon knew himself to be different, marked, and not in a way that was blessed. His heart saddened, then hardened, and a darkness was born within him. It was all of our faults, from that day to this."
The fire crackled and spat vigorously, making Harper jump backwards. Brand smirked, but Aedon's atmospheric guise did not fall into the shadows of his cloak. Across the fire, Ragnar's impassive face illuminated as he puffed on his pipe, the glowing embers within casting a ruddy hue across him with each breath that flared them into life. The darkness seemed to swell around them oppressively as the last light over the horizon dimmed to nothing.
"As Saradon grew, he saw what an imbalance of power there was in Pelenor. As a half-elven princeling, he should have been given every right and privilege of his rank, yet he was cut out of almost all for his lack of magic. He grew bitter, and who could blame him? Slowly, he retreated further into the shadows. Despite his rank, he would never hold power. Despite his blood, he would never inherit. Such was the curse of a mortal life.
