Heart of Dragons

by Meg Cowley

  "Saradon grew so angry, so disillusioned, that he sought to make a change. Perhaps his intentions began nobly, or perhaps they were always selfish. Perhaps there were lessons to be learned. That those of mortal blood could be useful in their own way. Perhaps mortality without magic was not a curse after all. Yet all his life, Saradon had been told it was, so what else was he to think?

  "He despised them all for it," Aedon continued darkly. Harper could not tell to whom the anger in his voice was directed – at Saradon or those who had wronged him.

  "In his anger and hate, he decided he would cast them all down, save for his mother, whose love had never erred. He would take down his father, the king, and all those who thought he was a blight upon the kingdom. He would take down the elves, magic itself, and rule in his own right, to prove that those without magic could also wield power.

  "Perhaps Saradon’s cause was noble at first, lifting up those with no voice of their own. At the time, mortals had little say in the running of the kingdom. However, his methods were entirely selfish. Some say the Dragonhearts are what helped him. He stole them and bound them to his will with the darkest of magics, for he was supposed to have none.

  "With the same evil magics, he sapped the king of his strength, then the court, the city, and eventually all those who opposed him, even sending the dragons of the Winged Kingsguard into a slumber from which they could not awaken, all the while absorbing their power. Neither before nor since has Pelenor seen such a dark curse. None could stand in his way. The mighty Kingsguard was rendered useless in a heartbeat. Then he struck."

  Harper was frozen, barely breathing, waiting for the hammer to fall. Aedon's eyes fixed upon her, ensnaring her in his gaze as the fire died. She jumped at the crash and shower of sparks as Ragnar tossed another log onto the flames, and her heart pitter-pattered at the sudden fright.

  A flicker of a smile crossed Aedon's face at her involuntarily movement and the widening of her eyes. He was a born storyteller, and he enjoyed a captivated audience.

  "Saradon had spent many a year sympathising with those who shared his views in Pelenor. To be mortal, to have no magic, to be anything other than an elf was not a cursed thing. To be forced to live as a second-class citizen was a crime in and of itself, one that wronged them all. In his eyes, and those who followed him, it was something that needed to be righted...and punished.

  "His armies, consisting of humans and other creatures, flooded the kingdom. The king's army, without its magic, was at a severe disadvantage. It seemed all would be lost...until Saradon's plan backfired. The dragons awoke from their cursed slumber and returned to the fight. It was enough to tip the scales."

  "What then?" Harper's voice was barely louder than a breath.

  "The king's armies swept through Pelenor, annihilating Saradon's forces. Mercilessly. Those who had followed Saradon, as well as their families, were killed or imprisoned. Saradon's entire family was executed, even his dear mother – perhaps especially his dear mother – for fear they would support him. That was the last straw for him. It is said his mother's death drove him to the brink of insanity and beyond. That it broke some part of him, the only decent part of him that remained.

  "Saradon escaped and fled into exile. No trace of him was found, seen, or heard from again. He was rumoured to have been killed, but no body or proof has ever been offered. His defeat brought peace to Pelenor, but there was a fracture there that is still, even now, not yet healed.

  "There should have been lessons learned, and there were some, but not enough. Those without magic were given greater status in the kingdom, but it did not go far enough to securing equality. There was too much suspicion and bitterness, fear and anger, hurt and sorrow for all to be forgiven.

  “Wrongs were written between those of magical blood and non-magical blood where none had existed before. Those prejudices still run amongst us. As peaceful as Pelenor may seem now, it is perhaps more divided than ever." Aedon's voice was tinged with sadness.

  "Over all hovers one deep-rooted fear to this day. That he, or his likeness, will return."

  He fell into silence as the darkness closed in and the crackling of the fire seemed unnaturally loud.

  "Will he?" Harper whispered, not daring to speak louder.

  Aedon shrugged. "No man, elf, or anyone else knows."

  "When did this happen?"

  "Five hundred years ago or so."

  "Five hundred?" Harper gasped. "Surely he'll be dead by now."

  "Nay. A half-elf with magic will live for many hundreds of years. Even without magic, he will have had a much longer lifespan than most. And he was clever. There are certain dark measures one can take to extend their life, dangerous though they are. With the power of the Dragonhearts, he surely guarded himself well."

  "Do you think he will return?"

  Aedon did not answer for a moment. "Long before Saradon was even born, there was a prophecy made that the elves connected to him, whether or not it be true, that says he will rise once again. ‘As it was before, so it will be again. This time, he will attack thrice as deadly and thrice as hard.’ A fated one is said to hold the key to his defeat, but the fated one is ‘merely a pinprick of light against an onslaught of darkness, all too easily winked out of existence with only the most infinitesimally small chance’ of defeating him. Dark tidings indeed, if it is to be true."

  "Enough." Erika's voice was unnaturally harsh, even for her. "Do not fill the girl's head with silly stories and nonsense. Saradon is dead, gone, and he will not return. It is a story, nothing more."

  Harper looked between them, confused. Aedon stared at Erika without replying. She clenched her jaw. "What?"

  "I know this tale affects you personally. I apologise. I did not intend to cause offense."

  "I know, storyteller." All the same, Erika jumped to her feet and stalked away from the fire, disappearing into the pitch black of the night.

  “Don’t leave the wards.” Brand’s voice rang after her.

  Harper continued to glance between Aedon and the spot where Erika disappeared. What in Caledan am I missing here? Erika was involved with Saradon? Surely she's not old enough.

  Brand shared a glance with Aedon. "It is her story to tell," he said in a surprisingly gentle voice.

  "I know," Aedon said heavily, looking back at Harper. "One day, Harper, I hope you will understand why Erika is the way she is, but trust to us, she has endured the greatest of hardships. The fact she is alive at all is a miracle, and that along with the fact she still continues to smile and hope is more besides."

  Harper did not understand. His words only made Erika seem even more mysterious and cryptic. Smile? Harper did not think she had ever seen the grimfaced woman smile.

  "So the people of Pelenor fear that he, or his followers, will rise again? Those with magic fear those without it?"

  Aedon nodded. "Yes, and vice versa. It is why people will fear you, Harper.” His dark eyes regarded her solemnly.

  "Me? That's... That’s..." Rubbish. Impossible.

  "Yes, you. You carry his mark. And the power of a Dragonheart, a stone that should not exist, at least in your possession. What does that make you? Perhaps a dark sorceress? That scares people."

  Harper felt a tingle of unease. "But I haven't done anything wrong."

  "I know that.” He gestured around them. “We know that. But fear is hard to overcome. Fear of the past, fear of strangers, fear of danger. You will not be allowed to stroll up to the king and present your case. There will be much explaining to do first, and you must make sure your voice is heard; otherwise, it will not end well."

  "I'm good at persuading people," Harper said, more confidently than she felt.

  "Hmm," Aedon replied noncommittally.

  She caught his implied undertone. He thinks it won't be enough.

  “IF SHE LIES, I CANNOT detect it,” Aedon said, rubbing a hand through his tousled hair and huffing. “She is either truly innocent, or a darkness beyond anything I have ever encountere
d.”

  “I think she is the former,” Ragnar said.

  “The latter,” Erika said at the same time. They glared at each other.

  “Why must you believe the worst of people?” asked Ragnar.

  “When it is all you have known, why think otherwise? Why are you so naïve?” she snapped back.

  “I would hope that we are not lumped in with that,” Aedon said to Erika, raising an eyebrow.

  She scowled, but subsided in silent, reluctant acquiescence. “Well, I’m not about to believe her word. What can be done about it? It’s not safe for her to stay with us. I vote we leave her.”

  Brand stirred. “If she is dangerous, keeping her with us – in our line of sight at all times – would be the smarter move. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

  “Or perhaps she is no enemy and you are all mistaken. This could be one giant misunderstanding,” Ragnar said.

  Erika scoffed, but Aedon silenced her with a glare. His gaze moved to Harper’s sleeping form by the fire. “I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  “How?” Erika pressed.

  “By any means necessary.”

  Twenty-Three

  Dimitri returned to Tournai with the Winged Kingsguard, though not by choice. It was a necessary annoyance. The farther away from the Dragonheart he was, the farther away they were, too.

  As much as he longed to find it, biding his time was the only sensible choice, no matter how impossibly frustrating. When he returned to the area, he would be able to explore...alone. Away from their prying eyes. Away from the king’s attention.

  His attention snapped up as Toroth strode into the study. Dimitri had been inside the study before, but only rarely, and only for his most secretive tasks. It had not changed. It was as cold and unwelcoming as the man who owned it.

  Raedon’s scowl at being made to wait vanished the moment the king entered. Dimitri suppressed a smile. For all Raedon’s arrogance, even he did not dare peeve the king. Dimitri was also fed up of waiting. It had been the longest of days, and it was late when they returned, but he did not show an ounce of it to Raedon or the king. Instead, he stood in the small circle of light cast by the flickering fire and waited in silence.

  Toroth sank into the plush chair at the far side of his grand desk and raised an eyebrow at the pair of them, asking for their report without permitting them to sit. Dimitri opened his mouth, but Raedon beat him to it.

  “I can’t work with this...this spy,” Raedon spluttered. Toroth’s thunderous brows knitted together as he glared at Raedon, then Dimitri. “He tails along after us, appearing here and there without warning or courtesy. He sits and skulks and never seems to do anything. He disappears, and no word do I hear of what he has done to earn his place.”

  The king stood, his fists resting on the desk, and turned to Dimitri. “Is this true?”

  “Not at all, Your Majesty.” He smiled blandly at Raedon. “The dragon master does not understand the nature of my work. Why, if I had the same courtesy of him, I would have said he did nothing except shout orders all day and fly about on his dragon. Did you find what the king seeks?” he asked Raedon innocently, but his eyes sparkled with grim glee as Raedon squirmed.

  “No, as you well know,” he muttered. He looked at Toroth and straightened, the picture of defiance. “I won’t work with him. His shadiness sullies the name and good reputation of the Winged Kingsguard.”

  “Won’t?” Toroth whispered dangerously before he exploded. “You are ordered to work together. I don’t give one damn whether you like it or not! If you dare defy me, I shall give your title to a more deserving rider.”

  Raedon subsided, but Dimitri had the spark of an idea. He dropped into a low bow. “Your Majesty?”

  “What?” Toroth snapped. Dimitri knew one false word and they would both be out of favour.

  “Forgive me.” Dimitri’s words were as smooth as smoke on the wind. “I believe the general may have stumbled upon a grand idea, though entirely for the wrong meaning. Perhaps we would be better off parting company.”

  When the king stood tall, glowering at him, he held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Apart, we can cover more ground. If we split up, we can cast the net wider, find what you seek twice as fast.”

  Dimitri leaned forward, putting every ounce of persuasion into his voice that he could. “Of course, my king, you know best of all. It is no trouble to me. I only wish to better serve you. I humbly submit to your judgment.”

  Toroth narrowed his eyes at him. Dimitri could see how much Toroth hated to agree with him, but it was not his first time playing this strategic game. It was almost like a game of chatura. Just with people, not pieces upon a board.

  “Fine,” Toroth relented. “Part ways. Search faster, and harder. It has been too many days.” He sat once more, and his attention turned to the contents of his desk, dismissing them.

  Raedon bowed and left. Dimitri followed suit. The general spoke not one more word to him as he peeled away down a corridor to his chambers. Dimitri stared after him before he turned the opposite way to his own quarters. It had been so many years, but the resemblance was still uncanny.

  Five years separated Dimitri and Aedon. If Dimitri had been a legitimate son, he considered he and Aedon would probably have been close friends; after all, their Houses were allies, though Aedon’s was held in much higher regard than his.

  He huffed as he walked the dark, deserted corridors. They had grown up as far apart as could have been. Dimitri, the illegitimate shame, hidden away. Aedon, the golden son, afforded every privilege. Aedon had been everything Dimitri ever wanted...and everything he could never have.

  How different their lives had been. Dimitri shook his head. Their fortunes had reversed...in a strange way. Now, Aedon was as infamous as he was famous, and Dimitri was the one with a place at court, though more reviled than revered.

  And it seemed Aedon travelled with others as infamous as himself. Dimitri had used his time earlier that evening, arriving home well in advance of Raedon, to dig into the elf’s companions. Brand, the exiled Aerian rebel. Erika, the nomad with unknown origins. Ragnar, the disinherited dwarf. Nowhere was there mention of another woman by the name of Harper.

  That pulled at Dimitri. He had to know more. To both sate his curiosity and find the Dragonheart.

  More than that, he also had to find Saradon, still morbidly curious as to where the cursed one rested, what had happened to him, and the strange prophecies that surrounded him.

  Somewhere in it all, Dimitri was determined to find clues that would help him follow in Saradon’s footsteps and break the wheel.

  Dimitri halted with an epiphany. The halls were utterly silent around him, as if waiting in anticipation. He could use it to his advantage. First, he would use the quest for the Dragonheart to cover up his own search. Then he would use it to seek Saradon. All the while, he would keep a watchful eye on the elf and his misfit accomplices.

  A grin split his face, and he strode forward with a new spring in his step. It was lucky indeed that he had a swift way to travel, for there would be much ground to cover in order to accomplish everything he had hoped. Time was of the essence.

  When he entered his own quarters, the upended vase of roses on the floor reminded him of his other duty. With a sigh and a wave of his hand, he made them, along with the mess on his fine rug, vanish. His first duty would be to the court. Of course, he would have to ensure his eyes and ears watched there, too. But there was one place they could not aid him.

  “I SEE YOU CALLED UPON me, my princess.” Dimitri bowed low to Rosella, who reclined before her fire, her body covered in a thin, silken nightgown. Her quarters were far more warm and welcoming than the king’s. Every touch of comfort had been added. In truth, he despised the ghastly plumpness of all the cushions, the cloying softness of her furnishings. When Rosella flicked her hand, the servants vanished in silence, setting down their trays of choice canapes and drinks on the way out.

  Rosella
lifted her chin imperiously. “You have been absent.” Her beauty paled when she was petty and angry, but he pretended not to notice.

  Dimitri strode forward to kiss her on the cheek, but she pulled away, so he stepped back to a respectful distance. It was not an unfamiliar game. Rosella liked to do the abandoning, not the other way around.

  “I can only apologise, my princess. Your father sent me away on urgent business. Would that I could have seen you instead.” Her pout subsided just a little. He shifted his weight, so her gaze angled toward a suggestive part of his body, and grinned wickedly. “Did you miss me?” he purred.

  Her pout disappeared, opening into a mischievous smile, and she tilted her body toward him, letting her gown slip from a shoulder. “Show me you’re sorry, Dimitrius.”

  His body ached with tiredness, but the thrill of the conquest gave him new energy. He had to admit, even if it was Rosella, it was a nice reward to return to.

  THE NEXT MORNING, WITH the tension in his body released after his dalliance, Dimitri returned, even more tired, to the king’s task. He longed to seek Saradon using the relic from Karietta’s tomb, but it would have to wait. He glanced toward the item’s hiding place, tempted to recover it.

  Not yet. Soon, he promised himself.

  It would be the easiest of his tasks, now he had the relic. Like called to like. The relic would guide him to Saradon’s remains, wherever they were. If only he had even a part of the Dragonheart to do the same. Something more than the teasing tendril of memory of its power coursing through him.

  The dead could wait. The living could not.

  Dimitri did not delay. He slipped through the shadows to the valley where he had left them. The woods were empty, save for the steady pitter-patter of rain falling on the canopy above him. Mist and low clouds clung to the valley, and with mild irritation, Dimitri spelled himself against the cold and the wet. There would be no saving his fine boots from the mud.