Heart of Dragons

by Meg Cowley

  "Oh, undoubtedly."

  "How long?" Harper whispered.

  Aedon shrugged. "It depends on how strong your elven blood is. Perhaps we will find out one day, but it's not something to worry about now."

  "Right.” It’s not like it affects my entire life or anything! Reeling, Harper sat back. Just when I think I can handle all this, another surprise comes my way.

  "We need to move on." Ragnar stood, brushing the dust from his trousers. "We still have a long way to go."

  “Must I?” Aedon sighed. “What I’d give for a break.”

  “Less of the cheek,” Ragnar said, bustling past him.

  "I don't know what on Altarea you're talking about," Aedon protested, the picture of unconvincing innocence.

  "You're the biggest reprobate of us all," Brand called back, already out in front.

  "Charming."

  Harper jogged to Erika, who strode down the trail at her usual breakneck pace. "Thank you for the berries."

  She shrugged. "No problem."

  "Hey, Erika!" Aedon caught up. "You know, now Harper's here, she needs to know how to defend herself. Why don't you show her how to use a weapon."

  Erika gave him a stare that could have surely reduced him to cinders, as if she simply could not imagine anything worse.

  "Please?" Aedon gave her his best smile.

  Erika scoffed at him. "Fine." She pulled out one of the twin blades strapped to her back and thrust it at Harper. "Here.”

  Harper reached out, nearly dropping it as Erika let go too soon. She caught it clumsily, almost slicing herself in the process.

  "Lesson one. Pommel. Grip. Guard. Blade. Point." She pointed to each part of the blade in turn.

  Harper examined it. The handle was made of an ivory-coloured material she did not recognise. Not wood, metal, leather... Bone? she wondered. It was smooth from use, a grain ran vertically up the length of the grip, and strange characters were carved into the side. The pommel was a slightly widened knob on the end of the grip. Not like the ornate, jewelled pieces she had seen the lord carry.

  The crossguard was simple, made of steel-like metal, leading into a slim blade longer than a dagger but shorter than a sword. Rippling patterns covered the blade, almost like a frozen metal river. It seemed as thin as a blade of grass, and the cutting edge was sharpened to the point Harper felt she would cut herself by looking at it. Already, the weight of it tugged her arm inexorably toward the ground.

  How does she wield two of these?! Harper eyed Brand's huge, two-handed longsword strapped to his back. I probably couldn't even lift that...

  "Lesson two," Erika continued. "Take care of your weapons better than you take care of yourself. That way, they'll last longer and won't fail you. A badly maintained blade is as good as nothing."

  Harper nodded. "How do I take—"

  "Lesson three." Erika seemed determined to get through this as quickly as possible. "Don't get hit. Block your attacker whenever possible. Cut off their attack. Better yet, avoid it altogether. Footwork and balance are key to that."

  I need a little more information than that – and practise! Harper did not dare say that aloud. Erika clearly ignored interruptions.

  "Lesson four. Hit your target."

  Harper stifled a grim chuckle. "I should have seen that one coming."

  Aedon grinned at her, but Erika's visage did not waver from grim indifference. "If you don't hit them, you don't defeat them."

  Harper squirmed under Erika's glare. I know for a fact I can't kill someone. "But—"

  "But nothing. The middle of a battle is not the time to be shy, not the time for cowardice, not the time to develop concern for your enemy. If they're trying to kill you, they're as good as dead in your book.” She sighed. “I can already tell that's going to be a problem.

  "Lesson five. Always be ready. Threats can be all around you. You have to constantly know what is in front, behind, and to your sides. You have to be able to assess everyone, right down to the sweet old granny who doesn't look like she can lift a sword. Believe me, when you’re not expecting it, she can stab you in the back just as good as anyone else. And—”

  "All right. I think that's enough for now. You’ll scare her off!" Aedon protested. He turned to Harper. "Not all grannies are evil cretins, I promise you. But, uh... Erika's tips are good. Think you can remember them?"

  "I think so." Maybe. What was number two again?

  "Perfect. Perhaps you can show her some of that fancy footwork when we break for camp tonight, Erika."

  "Fine." She looked less than impressed as she held out her hand, raising an eyebrow at Harper. It took a long moment to realise she wanted her sword back. She passed it hurriedly to Erika, who spun the blade in her hand expertly and sheathed it on her back once more. Without another word, she jogged away and disappeared ahead to scout.

  "That went well," Harper said, an edge of sarcasm in her voice.

  "Oh, don't mind her." Aedon waved a hand dismissively. "That was actually pretty good. Most words I've heard her say all month. She must like you."

  Harper snorted.

  "All right. Perhaps that is pushing it, but believe me, that's friendly for Erika."

  "I feel like she hates me, but I don't know why."

  "Oh pish. She doesn't hate you. You've seen it takes a while for her to warm to people. It's nothing personal. When she starts to teach you some proper techniques, I’m sure you'll be the best of buddies in no time."

  "Yeah, right!" Harper laughed. “I won't hold my breath for that. Hey, Aedon, can I help you make the fire again tonight?"

  She tried to push away thoughts of his skin on hers and only focus on the excitement of the magic rushing through her. If she tried really hard, she could feel a tingle deep down in the pit of her stomach. It was small and weak, but still there. Maybe, just maybe, like Aedon had said, it was starting to well up.

  "Sure. Want to learn how I keep our camp safe every night, too?"

  "I thought that was Brand and Erika. You know, with all the swords and scariness."

  "Oh, that's all for show. Magic is far better at protecting us.”

  "All right,” said Harper, her curiosity piqued once more.

  Twenty-Seven

  Saradon looked as perfect as the day he had died, right down to every last raven hair upon his head and streaming across his shoulders.

  No doubt preserved by the arcane magics guarding this place, Dimitri thought.

  Unconsciously holding his breath, his eyes trickled across the still form before him.

  Saradon’s eyes were shut – much to Dimitri’s relief – his face stern and taut, even in death. Anger ran down every line upon it.

  His clothes were not too dissimilar to Dimitri’s own. The fine silken overjacket and matching pants, all embroidered in chasing patterns. Yet Dimitri could tell they were from a different time. The wide, flaring sleeves, loose-fitting bottoms, and shining knee-high boots on his muscled calves... It was a very different style to the current court fashions.

  A blade lay beside him. The match of the sword he wielded in the painting Dimitri had viewed in the royal galleries. The long, slim blade gleamed, and the ruby in the pommel matched the one in the signet ring, only larger. Saradon’s Mark gleamed upon it, inset in rose gold. Saradon’s fingers clenched the grip, his hands covered in black gloves of a leather so fine, Dimitri had never seen its like.

  There was no hint of decay upon him. None that Dimitri could see...or smell. Tentatively, to satisfy his own curiosity, he sent out a tendril of power toward Saradon’s still form, seeking something more. A spark of life, or the absence of it.

  It froze him where he stood.

  Mind and body were utterly gripped in an instant. Dimitri could not even breathe.

  The magic seizing him felt ancient, foreign. His own senses were covered in a wall of black adamant that he could not penetrate. It crushed and constricted him, squeezing his life and power out of existence.

  Dimitri threw up his me
ntal shields. Had the magic allowed him an ounce of movement, he would have shaken with the effort of it. He had never encountered such overwhelming power.

  There was barely an instant to wonder if Saradon had other innate elven gifts no one had known of, besides the magic he had been denied, or whether he had bought, bartered, or stolen the power that now surrounded Dimitri. He knew he only had a moment to fight back before the power winked him out of existence. The first time he had ever encountered a power so much greater than he that there was no hope of defeating it once it fractured his barriers and cracked his mind.

  Saradon would own him, control him, destroy him. Dimitri was not sure which one was worse.

  He sent out every ounce of energy he had, pushing a blanket of peace and alliance – he was careful to exude strength and resilience – toward the black adamant around him.

  The assault halted. A momentary curiosity sized him up.

  Dimitri felt the power well up again, so he appealed once more, holding Saradon’s Mark clear and firm in his mind.

  The attack halted again.

  “Who are you?” a deep voice spoke in his mind.

  The pressure drew back a little, allowing him the breath to answer. Dimitri gasped in the warm, stale air gratefully.

  “Dimitrius Vaeri Mortris of House Ellarian,” he choked out.

  Anger rippled through him. Not his own, but that of the being who spoke to him. “I know of House Ellarian.” Memories that belonged to someone else flickered through him. Cruel faces. Darkness. Hate.

  “I am not they,” Dimitri added hastily.

  “Who dares disturb the rest of Saradon Ettrias Thelnar of House Ravakian?”

  Relief mixed with excitement and muddied by fear shot through Dimitri. It’s him? He’s alive? How can it be?

  Dimitri was quick to answer, but not with his mouth. He pushed images of the kingdom at Saradon’s consciousness. He showed him Toroth’s greed and corruption, five hundred years of prejudice, bloodshed, and anger, and finally the burning of the false traitors in Saradon’s name.

  Rage shuddered through Dimitri as Saradon’s mood soured further.

  “My name has been used in vain?” Saradon thundered.

  “Yes, Lord. Five hundred years have passed and nothing has changed. Pelenor is as corrupt as ever it was.”

  “Five hundred years?” Surprise rippled through Dimitri, swiftly replaced by anger once more. “Curse them all,” Saradon spat. “Why have you come?”

  “I want to break the wheel,” Dimitri replied quietly and suredly. “I–I wondered if...” He fell into silence. He wondered what? Whether he could break the wheel himself? Whether somehow it would be possible to raise Saradon to do the selfsame thing, now that he had found him apparently in some stage of life or animation?

  He could be so much more than the talisman I sought.

  “You wondered if you could use me.” Saradon’s accusing voice cut through his thoughts.

  “No!” Dimitri hastily replied. “I find you here? Alive?” he asked tentatively. A silent affirmation replied. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps we can be in alliance for a common cause.”

  “I have power. Why would I need you?”

  The rumble of power threatened to sweep Dimitri away, but he felt how the magics twisted around him, more curious than angry.

  He cannot raise himself, Dimitri realised, somehow entirely certain of himself. “You cannot free yourself without assistance...without me.” Dimitri drew back, as if readying to leave – though, in the back of his mind, he was not entirely sure he could. The foreign magics shrank back in surprise before tightening again.

  He felt Saradon scowl – though his body remained entirely immobile – and the magic trickled back again, prowling around him. Still a threat, but not an imminent one.

  “It was not meant to be five hundred years. Merely a temporary stasis. It seems I was...let down.”

  “There was a prophecy that you would rise again,” Dimitri suggested cautiously. “Is it true?”

  Saradon snorted, and a dark rumble of laughter echoed around the cavern. “I will rise again. I care not for any prophecies made by the elves.”

  Dimitri privately agreed, though he did not say it. “How is it done?” he asked instead.

  “It is great and dark magic. I would not trust it to anyone.”

  “Then let me prove myself to you. I shall be your eyes and ears in the kingdom – and beyond, as the royal spymaster – and when you rise, I shall gather those that I can to your banners. I have already begun to plan the fall of Pelenor.” Dimitri made it sound far more developed and grand than what it really was – a wild idea, a dream – but his resolve did not waver as he stood firm, knowing Saradon would be sensing him out.

  “Why do you want this?” Saradon asked slowly. “Are you simply as greedy as the rest of them?” He sounded bored, but his voice held a bite of curiosity and the ever familiar anger.

  “No,” Dimitri was hasty to placate him. “Like you, I am sick of being oppressed for that which is not my fault. I will show you, if you wish, so you will know I speak truthfully.” It was a daring move that Dimitri was not entirely sure would succeed, but he had nothing to lose, and the greatest weapon in his potential arsenal to gain.

  “Show me.”

  Dimitri lowered the shield to his mind, opening a tiny chink in the impregnable wall he had never yielded to anyone.

  THE SUMMER SUN TICKLED his skin through the chink in the shutters. Dimitri pressed his face against the cold metal bars, as if he could somehow sink through them, through the shutters, to outside, to where life, light, and joy reigned.

  A cloud scudded across the sky, cutting off the slim ray of light in an instant. Dimitri sank onto the bench, his back against the cold stone. Out there, it was warm, but here, in the bowels of the castle, the cold of the earth was almost as pervasive as the cold of the stone.

  He shivered and drew his knees up to his chest, but he did not draw away from the cold stone. It soothed the lines of fire across his back where his father had whipped him mercilessly. An anger as hot as the pain seared through him at the thought of his brothers’ smug faces. The bastards had taunted him, as ever, with their legitimacy, and when he had bitten back, verbally and with a taste of magic far stronger than theirs, it was he who bore the punishment. As if his life were not punishment enough – confined to the shadows, as though his father’s shame was his fault.

  HE SKIPPED FROM MEMORY to memory, lingering as little as he could, for even now, they brought him nothing but pain and anger. His years of childhood imprisonment and punishment for his father’s indiscretions. His repeated snubs from the king. His dogged efforts to raise his standing, always hampered by the glass ceiling of the taint in his blood. His unanswered questions of who his mother was.

  Finally, he let the last memory slip away. How he had gotten his revenge, at last, upon his brothers. They bothered him no longer. He had always felt he had not made them suffer enough.

  Saradon’s anger fuelled his own, but he locked it away, pushing it back into that dark part of himself where it always lay hidden.

  “A Heart of Dragons. Find me one so I may yet live.”

  A thrill chased through Dimitri. I was right! The prophecy may not be nonsence after all. He made to bow, but Saradon continued in a low growl.

  “Find more, and I shall break the wheel.”

  Dimitri bowed low. “I will make it so, Lord.”

  The magic aided him, pushing him away, as Dimitri slid into the veils of the world again.

  His heart hammered as he alighted in his own quarters. So normal, safe, and welcoming after the hot, raw power of the chamber.

  I knew it. The Dragonheart is the key! There was no time to waste. I have to take it now.

  Twenty-Eight

  That night, when they stopped in a narrow valley by a stream, sheltering under a rocky overhang, the weather closed in. Harper was glad for the added shelter as the temperature rose and the clouds piled hig
h.

  The humidity was unbearable as the storms of autumn fought the summer into decline, and Harper made the most of the waterfall that plummeted off the overhang. Fully clothed, she walked into it, groaning with relief as the cool water engulfed her, washing away the dirt of the road and ridding the area of the uncomfortable mugginess for just a few minutes. As she returned to camp, dripping, she sank gratefully onto a rock, wriggling her toes as her aching feet pounded.

  "Good idea." Brand stripped to his breeches and dived under the waterfall. Harper gawked at him. He was riddled with scars, some old, some decidedly less so. She had never seen someone so battle-worn before, yet every inch of him bulged with muscle and strength.

  He's a fearsome warrior for certain.

  "A wash is indeed a good idea!” Aedon said brightly, making to follow Brand. Ragnar grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.

  "Not so fast, laddie. I need some wood before this storm starts. Go on. Off you go."

  Aedon groaned. "Make Erika do it!" Nevertheless, he lowered his vest and turned away. "Harper, want to help? I can show you the camp enchantments at the same time."

  "Yes!” She scrambled to her feet and followed him, pushing all thoughts of what he would look like under the waterfall from her head.

  Aedon and Harper gathered pieces of wood, twigs, and suitable kindling in short order, then returned to the outskirts of camp. Aedon paused.

  "Dump your wood here. We’ll come back for it."

  Harper emptied her armful on top of his and followed him as he strolled around the camp’s perimeter.

  "Take my hand. You'll feel it then."

  Harper laced her fingers through his. He spoke in a low voice, setting off at a leisurely pace once more. His lilting voice rose and fell, repeating the same snatch of words, but Harper could not catch them. They were birdsong upon the wind, their undulating syllables there and gone in an instant.

  Harper revelled in the feeling of magic flooding her body, radiating out from him in pulsing waves. Her senses changed, as though the outside world muffled, then sharpened, repeatedly peaking and diminishing until they had walked around the entire camp, hopped over the stream, and were back where they had started.