by Meg Cowley
The moment he returned to his chambers in the sprawling palace, he took the relic from its hiding place, a nook deep within the impregnable castle walls that no one else could find. He heaved a sigh of relief that it was still there, that it had not mysteriously vanished or, worse, been discovered.
Why had such a small thing been left when it was so clearly Saradon’s? The ruby signet ring would have been considered beautiful, if somewhat vulgar, in court. Perhaps, he mused, it had been left in Saradon’s mother’s grave without anyone else’s knowledge. Or perhaps they had not dared to desecrate her, as I had, to recover it.
The large, oval, multi-faceted gem sat between golden claws twining around it. He looked inside the band, through the back of the ruby, and saw Saradon’s Mark, the riven circle, carved into the face of the gem with a perfection that only came from a master craftsman...or magic.
He made to put it on his index finger, but stayed himself at the last second. Something about this ring felt different, and he had long been cautious of magical artefacts. It was innocuous. At a passing glance, it was a gem fit for a lord or lady, but nothing so garish as to draw undue attention. Was the little pulse of power he felt emanating from it his imagination? Dimitri squinted at it suspiciously, but it glittered in the bright lights with no hint of any dark purpose about it.
His fingers closed around the cold, smooth metal as his eyes slipped shut and he inhaled deeply – a focusing, calming breath. His heart jittered at what he was about to do, but he ignored it, walling himself off from any emotions. He buried his mind into the ring in his palm, feeling it, understanding it, being it, until its essence, and that of its previous owner, filled his mind.
Just like the Dragonheart, the tiniest thread burrowed into the distance, meandering and vanishing, so tenuous was it. The ring was warm in his hand and hummed with energy. Dimitri focused on that, seeking its likeness as he sank into the void to follow the thread back to its owner.
He slipped from the world and flitted through the lifestream, skimming over distances like a stone over water. There were brief flashes of the landscape as he touched down or slowed for a moment. Sunset over the mountains. The deep, silent shadows of a forest. Open plains. The welcoming golden glow of a fire surrounded by travellers, a brief flash of warmth in the cold.
The more he travelled, the more the relic warmed in his palm until it almost burned him.
Then, with a start, he was there, stumbling uncharacteristically into rough stone.
Crushing weight.
Pulsing silence.
Energy charging everything around him.
Dimitri blinked rapidly, clearing his eyes after the sudden rush of dizziness, on full alert and ready to repel any attack.
None came, though he could feel the magic of this place. It was so strong, it forced itself down his throat, through his skin, pushing itself into him, absorbing him.
Daring a small faelight, he found himself in a small cavern with no entrance or exit. Feeling all around him, far beyond the reach of his arms, the weight of the mountain atop him was a looming keeper, its essence slow and sonorous.
The rough-hewn walls – carved by the hand of man or being, Dimitri was certain – contained all manner of markings in a script he had never seen before. He realised they probably captured the magic that sealed everything in. He could feel it practically pulsing through the air and stone of the cave, like the beating of his own heart.
He did not need to read the glyphs to understand the magic. The wards sealed the space with the worst magics he had ever felt – death, destruction, curses. Realising he held his breath, he released it in a slow whoosh when he noticed how they swirled lazily through the stone and air. Even though they felt him, and he could taste the threat behind their acrid, metallic tang, they did not seek him. For the first time in many years, he felt a magic older and far more powerful than he.
This could crush me in less than an instant. He rolled the ring between his fingers, feeling it hum, realising that was what had given him safe passage. It protects me, he marvelled, staring at the innocuous jewellery. The magic thinks I am him and he is me.
Dimitri widened his faelight, shining it on the corner of a raised structure. He cast it farther out and up, until the whole cavern was illuminated before him, bouncing his warm, golden faelight back at him with some strange red corruption.
Tingles ran down his spine. Before him stood a great, stone sarcophagus. More glyphs adorned it. Many he did not know, but some Aurarian elvish runes were smattered here and there. All were embossed upon the stone in a rosy metal he did not recognise. He glanced closer at the Aurarian runes, noticing they were not as he expected. Somehow changed, marred, their meanings cursed and corrupted.
What dark sorcery is availing here? he wondered with a shiver of dread, suppressing the worry at what he had stumbled upon.
Despite being in the depths of cold stone, a heat seemed to burn him corrosively until he could feel the unpleasant prickle of sweat soaking his skin and the expensive, fine fabrics of his clothes. Yet like called to like, and he found himself inexorably pulled toward the sarcophagus.
The stone came to the top of his thighs, and now, looking down upon the surface, he saw the carvings continued in columns and rows, swirling clockwise from the bottom right to the centre of the great slab of stone, where there was a strange hollow.
Carefully, Dimitri leaned forward, not touching the stone. He could feel the raw power rolling from it. Either something powerful lay here, or it had sealed the tomb.
A tingle of fear stroked his spine, but he had come this far. He would not be denied now. The answer he sought might lay on the other side of the stone. If only he could figure out how to enter it without triggering the wards that lazily swirled under the surface.
Here lies the talisman I seek. Perhaps the sarcophagus would be impossible to move, but perhaps its contents could be taken. And used to unite the rebellion.
He scoured the stone, the runes, the unseen spells for answers, finding a strange void of magic in the centre of the stone where the runes and the magic ended. The little dimple looked like an accident, or as if something was there and had fallen out. Dimitri frowned and bent closer, holding back his tunic so it did not touch the stone.
In the hole lay a raised symbol. With a rush of energy, Dimtiri understood. He uncurled his fingers and stared at the ruby in his palm, still almost burning hot. He felt around the gem until he found the flaw in the frame, then popped it from the setting. Holding the giant ruby in his hand, it seemed to sparkle even more brightly in the warped light of the cave. Slowly, he lowered it to the sarcophagus and slipped the ruby into the hollow. It fit perfectly, one piece of a jigsaw to another, upon the Mark of Saradon carved into the stone.
It shuddered under his fingers as the ruby sealed against it. With a hiss, the lid of the sarcophagus creaked. Dimitri quickly stepped back as it slid away, dissolving into swirls of sparkling magic.
The glittering particles of light dissolved to nothing.
Another tingle, one of fear and wonder, ran down Dimitri’s spine.
He recognised the perfectly preserved face of the man within the tomb.
Saradon.
Twenty-Six
That day was not to be the last before they reached the plagued village. Harper spent it mostly in silence, dawdling at the back of the group, even farther behind than Ragnar. Not even Aedon could chivvy away her glum spirit.
"She's really not so bad once you get to know her, you know," he said as they pushed their way through grass so long, it was as if they swam in it.
"Hmm..."
“Honestly, Harper. Chin up."
"I feel like I'm getting in the way. I can't do magic. I can't fight. Hell, I can't even cook."
"Yet, yet, and yet."
"I'm not cut out for any of this. I think Erika’s opinion of me will be the same by the time I can do any of those things. The sooner I return to Caledan, the better."
Aedon stop
ped beside her, and she stopped with him. "Do you truly think that?" He looked almost hurt at the suggestion.
"Well... Yes.”
He shook his head. "Then you are a fool. Harper, this is your birthright. You were meant to be born here and live here. It's going to take a little catching up, but you ought not be defeated at the first hardship. Are you really so easily persuaded away from your path?"
Harper bristled. "No. I just—"
"Exactly. You just nothing. Life isn't meant to be easy. You're doing pretty well for only being here a few days. I mean, you're not dead yet. That's actually a pretty huge accomplishment."
"Thanks to you."
"Well, yes." For once, Aedon didn't puff up with self-importance. "But still. You're alive. Besides, if you left...” He took a deep breath, “I’d miss you.” He gave her a wink and, whistling a jaunty tune, jogged ahead to catch Ragnar. Harper trudged along on her own, her cheeks flushed from his attentions, a new spring in her step.
Harper nodded to herself. Aedon was right. She had never been one to give up easily. Why start now? Sure, she'd nearly poisoned a woman who seemed to hate her for no reason, but it had been an accident. Everyone made those. Plus, Ragnar was right. No harm done.
When they stopped for a midday meal in the middle of the wide valley, she plucked up the courage to approach Erika.
"Can you teach me about poisonous berries?" she asked in her most powerful voice, though it quaked a little with nerves.
Erika regarded her with a flat stare. "Ask Ragnar."
"Oh. I thought since you knew about the...” She gave a small smile. “Sure. Thanks." Harper turned away to hide the rising crimson on her cheeks and went to Ragnar, who threw a dark look at Erika.
"Sure, Harper. I'll teach you, though Erika is better at it than I. Perhaps she can give some tips." He glared pointedly at her. She ignored him.
Ragnar scowled. "Fetch some water, please, Harper. The stream is over there to your right somewhere, I believe.” They had followed it fairly closely all day.
Harper disappeared into the long grass, her eyes on the hazy hills in the distance. She almost fell into the stream, which was far closer than she had thought, and bent to fill the waterskin and pot.
"You don't have to be like that with her," she heard Ragnar say angrily.
Harper froze. He's talking to Erika?
"Like what?" Erika replied, her quiet voice muffled by the swaying, rustling grass. Harper strained her ears.
"You don't have to be such a damn harpy to her!"
"Don't speak to me like that."
"Like you speak to her? I won't have it, woman."
"Don't call me woman!" Erika's voice rose, shrill against the breeze.
"Calm it, you two," Brand said, his gravelly tones calming compared to the friction between them.
"You know, you both know, how damn hard it is to be an outcast," Ragnar pressed. "Erika, I thought you would relate to it more than anyone. How did you feel when you were shunned away from everyone and everything you knew and loved? I bet that was like falling into another world, wasn't it?"
"I survived and thrived. You don't know anything about that," Erika spat at the dwarf. "And you have no right to speak of it!"
"I think I do, because I also know what it is like. It's not nice. Not nice at all. It feels like your entire world has fallen away. Like everything and everyone has died. You're alone, and everything is a clean slate – a blessing and a curse."
Ragnar’s voice sounded desolate. Harper's heart ached for him.
“Somehow, you have to pick yourself up and carry on. When did you become so bitter and twisted, Erika? Harper hasn't done anything to you. It isn't her fault. Quit acting like she's the chip on your shoulder. You think she'll achieve anything if you're always putting her down? Telling her she's stupid? That she can't do it?
“We're a team...nay, a family, and right now, I couldn't be more ashamed of you. You're acting exactly like you were portrayed. This is the behaviour you were cast out for. This is the person people feared you would become. Do not become her."
She did not answer. When Harper heard the rusling of grass coming closer, she bent low, hidden amongst the tangle of foliage, as Erika passed close by and leapt over the channel of water, striding out of sight. Her heart hammered as Ragnar's words echoed in her mind.
What is he talking about? Harper clutched the pot between her hands and returned to camp, the tense atmosphere there dissipating with her arrival.
"Ah, thank you, Harper. Much appreciated. You've saved my old hands and knees.”
She set the pot down and smiled, but it did not quite reach her eyes. "Oh," she said, struck by a sudden thought. "I might be able to help with your hands." She had noticed how he sometimes struggled to pick things up and fumbled when he held things.
"May I?" She gestured toward his hands.
With a quizzical glance, he offered one to her. Harper settled on the ground at his side and took his gnarled hand between her own, massaging it slowly from palm to fingertip.
Ragnar groaned in bliss. She worked on one hand in silence before transferring her attention to the other. He sat back with a sigh when she was done, flexing his fingers and examining his hands.
"That was wonderful, Harper. Thank you. That's really eased my aches. What did you do?"
"My old...” She wasn’t sure what Betta had been, “friend suffered terribly with arthritis, so I learned a bit to help her out. She couldn't pick things up, her fingers so overworked. In the winter, it got so bad she could barely use her hands."
"Well, I thank you." Ragnar's smile was genuine and warm, reaching right to the corners of his crinkled eyes. "That feels much better."
"Are you offering those to everyone?" Aedon asked suggestively, making her jump with a squeak. As usual, he seemed to appear from nowhere. “Can’t be giving the old dwarf an advantage over us at chatura, you know.”
She blushed and turned around, noticing Brand glancing at her thoughtfully, then Erika striding back toward camp. There was a long moment of awkward silence. Harper held her breath.
"Here," Erika said abruptly, thrusting a handful of berries toward her. "Red ones are occa berries. Edible. Nutritious. Green ones are poisonous. Don't eat them."
"Th... Thank you." Harper caught the berries before they tumbled to the ground, and Erika strode away again.
She offered them to Ragnar for his tea, but he refused. “Save them as a snack. I think we'll drink up and move on. Slim pickings here if Aedon the Great Hunter hasn't found anything."
Aedon held up his hands apologetically.
"Jerky it is." Ragnar pulled some strips of dried meat from his pack and passed them around. Harper ate it without complaint, not daring to ask what kind of meat it was. It was rich, tangy, and extra salty, but too small to fill the gnawing hunger in her stomach.
It was as if Aedon could read her thoughts, for he offered her some of his own.
“You don’t have to do that."
He shrugged. “You need it more than I. Did they starve you in Caledan?”
Harper flushed and pulled her cloak around her self-consciously. “No. I mean... It’s just a hard place to live. The king takes his tithe, then the lord takes more. There’s not much to start with, and even less when they’re through.”
"That doesn't seem fair." Aedon shared a glance with Brand.
“That doesn’t happen here?”
“The king is greedy, but not so much for peasant’s food. He prizes dragons and magic.”
“You said all dragons belong to the king. How is that?” Harper could not imagine the dragons from her stories being subjugated.
“By law, all dragons in Pelenor belong to the king, who can do with them as he pleases. Of course, all of them become members of the Winged Kingsguard, his personal winged army. He has no other use for dragons. Besides, I hear they’re a bit more malleable if you can train them out of the egg. Otherwise, they're rather hard to tame."
"That d
oesn't seem fair, either."
"It's the law," Aedon said, as if it were that simple.
"You're quite right," Brand said, catching Harper's gaze and scowling. "Just because it's law doesn't make it right."
"Exactly my thought," Harper murmured.
"You'll find a lot of that here in Pelenor," Brand said, "though I'm guessing Caledan is no utopia, either."
"No," said Harper sadly. "There are plenty of people with power who abuse it, plenty of outdated or silly laws that don't seem fair, and just those who think they can take what they will." She meant the lecherous men in the inn, but as her gaze strayed to her companions, she realised they were the same.
"Such is the way of the world," Aedon said. "This is why we're here. To bring a little bit more fairness back.” When he saw the flicker of skepticism on Harper's face, he nodded. “You’ll see.”
"How big do dragons grow?" she asked quickly, keen to cover her tracks. Don't bite the hand that feeds you, Harper. Criminal or not.
"Huge. The size of a house or more,” Aedon said. "It is said that King Menoth's own dragon, some four hundred and thirty years ago, was as huge as a hill."
Brand snorted. "Poppycock."
"Were you there?” Aedon challenged him, puffing with indignance.
"No, and neither were you, young elf."
"Don't 'young elf' me. I'm older than you!"
"In years, but not maturity," Brand sniped, grinning as Aedon's cheeks reddened with annoyance.
"How old are you?" Harper asked curiously. She glanced between them. Brand looked older than Aedon by far. Maybe in his late thirties to Aedon's early twenties.
How long is a year here? she wondered. Maybe they measure it differently.
"Old enough for everything to ache when I wake up," Brand grumbled.
"Shouldn't spend so much time banging weapons about then," sniped Aedon. "I, my dear Harper, am one hundred and eighty-four summers young."
Harper gaped. "What? Are you serious?"
"Yes, quite. We live a lot longer than humans, you know."
We? "Wait. You mean... I will live that long, too?"
