by Meg Cowley
"This is what's best for me. Your mission was never mine. I'm grateful for your help,” she allowed herself to concede, “but I can't stay. Erika was right. I have a different path to follow."
Aedon sighed heavily. The breeze sighed with him, grazing through the trees and grass, brushing Harper's hair from her face.
"If your mind is made up, I cannot dally any longer," he said dully. He reached inside the folds of his cloak and unbuckled his dagger. "Here. I want you to have this."
Harper took it, holding it gently in her hands. "I can't take this," she whispered. The ornate scabbard was a shadow of the beautiful blade within. She had already admired it. Silver filigree on red leather that matched the grip and guard inside. A small pommel of intricately wrought steel, and a leaf-shaped blade the likes of which she had never seen.
"You need it more than I do," Aedon said, stepping back and raising his hands when she held it out. "The handle of your knife was damaged and the blade bent. I’m sorry. I hope this will serve you as well as it's served me. Take care not to lose it. One day I might ask for it back." His smile was half-hearted, but hopeful.
"I'm sure our paths won’t cross again, Aedon." Harper fingered the dagger, feeling wholly out of her depth and ill-equipped to use it as it deserved.
"I hope they do, but promise me one thing.”
"What's that?"
"On your honour, swear that if you ever become a member of the Winged Kingsguard or something so grand, you won't arrest me." A flicker of his usual light-hearted humour broke through the creases of worry etched on his face.
Harper could not help but crack a small smile. "I swear it."
"Well, I suppose this is goodbye." Aedon lingered. It was clear he still wished for her to change her mind.
"I suppose it is. Thank you, Aedon, for everything. Goodbye...for now."
Aedon nodded and swallowed, before turning on his heel and marching away. After a few paces, he broke into a run to catch up with his distant companions, not looking back.
Harper watched them crest the hill and disappear. It was strange to realise that, despite their short companionship, she had grown to care for them all just a little. She berated herself for it, but to see them receding into the distance, knowing their paths were unlikely to cross again, made her sadder than she thought possible, despite the hurt that had been caused.
She followed the valley until the land flattened out. The great city of Tournai stood proud on the horizon, stretching up into the mountains like a crown amongst the foothills. As she hiked toward it, Harper tried to be distracted by the promise of a new, exciting adventure.
Thirty-Seven
The wood elves could yet be an ally, Dimitri mused, for they have as little love for Toroth as I do. It was the right choice not to kill them...I hope.
He had little time to think on it, having had to rush back to the king to make his report, and convincingly, that he had still not uncovered the whereabouts of the Dragonheart.
It took all his efforts to conceal the truth from his face, body language, and voice, but Dimitri took heart from the fact that the charade would not be for much longer. He listened carefully to Raedon’s reports, too, feeling a noticeable tinge of relief that the Winged Kingsguard weren’t any closer to finding the location of the stone, but in fact drifting further away. He allowed himself a smug smile, hidden from both Raedon and the king.
“Is that all?” The king’s furrowed brows suggested that it had better not be.
“Your Majesty, every member of the Winged Kingsguard searches from dawn until dusk for your stone.”
“Bah,” spat Toroth, pacing back and forth before the hearth so angrily, Dimitri swore he would wear a hole in the stone. “What of your efforts?” he fired at Dimitri.
He straightened, caught off guard by the sudden switch in the king’s attention. “I am afraid my results are the same as the general’s. It must have travelled far afield indeed.”
They bowed their heads in contrition as the king erupted at them. Curses were shouted, objects hurled, items of priceless value smashed, before the king’s anger abated and he dismissed them. Dimitri held his tongue, averted his eyes, and dipped his head for it all, despite the rebellious streak of anger that spiked in him. He fired a barrage of silent curses back at the king, who would never hear them.
Dimitri could not have cared less for the king’s displeasure. It only served to reinforce how unfit a ruler he was. Knowing there was no time to waste, Dimitri rushed straight to Saradon’s chamber in the heart of the mountain. He had to make his reports and retrieve the Dragonheart. Now Aedon and his companions knew he sought it, he had no doubt they would do everything in their power to thwart him.
SARADON’S CRUSHING presence greeted him in the warm, stale air of the cavern. Dimitri bowed to the sarcophagus before opening his mind to the strange, not entirely welcome presence of Saradon, who brooded and lurked upon the fringes of his consciousness.
“I have located the Dragonheart, Lord,” Dimitri said without preamble. “I was unable to obtain it due to a complication, but it is safe for now. As soon as I leave here, I shall retrieve it.”
“A complication?” Saradon’s tone was curt, with a bite of impatience. Dimitri could understand that.
Five hundred years is a long time.
“Yes.” Dimitri shared a flood of mental images with Saradon’s consciousness, showing the encounter with the wood elves that drew him away from his pursuit of the stone.
“You should have crushed them,” Saradon said flatly.
“They may yet be allies.”
“I doubt it. The wood elves ne’er were amicable toward my ilk. They were too high and mighty to associate with the likes of me.”
Dimitri pursed his lips. “I understand that only too well. They were none too keen to cooperate with me, either.”
“Yet your anger is not directed at them.”
Dimitri started. He had not realised it still curled within him, like the embers of a fire that would not die. Before he could respond, Saradon had already stepped into his mind, living through his encounter with the king. He felt Saradon’s disdain for Toroth before he voiced it.
“What a detestable creature. The bloodline has not changed, I see. I shall enjoy casting him down.”
“And I will be glad to see it done by my hand also,” Dimitri said grimly. “The court is a cesspit of greed and selfishness. None more so than Toroth. The kingdom suffers at his hands, and I would see it end.”
“Not just Toroth, though?”
Dimitri realised that his thoughts had strayed to his father. “No,” he admitted. “I still have scores to settle with my father and brothers.” He had never really settled them to his satisfaction.
“And you shall see it done.”
The cave faded away as Dimitri imagined it, not for the first time. Saradon’s voice caught him in the midst of his fantasy.
“It will be a turning point for Pelenor. One that ought to have occurred five hundred years ago. I shall not be denied again.”
Suddenly, Dimitri was in Saradon’s own visions. He flew as if on dragonback, but utterly weightless and without wind, over a lush, green vista. Blue skies reigned from east to west, across verdant valleys and rolling forests, and rivers of silver threaded through the land.
They soared over hamlets and towns filled with healthy, laughing peoples. A white city rose before him. Tournai, cleaner and more pure than ever Dimitri had known it. There was a sweetness in the air. A clean, fresh, natural fragrance that contrasted starkly with the stench of the city streets Dimitri knew.
“Pelenor will be restored to prosperity, peace, and health once more. No longer will the land and its peoples be exploited for all they have.”
Saradon’s anger brought thunderous clouds to the vision. The skies darkened, and suddenly, they were inside Tournai, at the very square where Dimitri had watched Toroth burn the false traitors. The pyres remained, but the figures upon them were very different.
They blurred, shifting, but Dimitri saw snatches of faces he knew in them. The king, his father, his brothers, the court.
“I will see it done that Toroth and his kin of blood and spirit are punished for all they have done. The cruelty and greed of the court will be put to death. A fairer Pelenor will be born, and I will see that it does not fall into such depths again,” Saradon growled. “You will be well rewarded for your assistance, in whatever way you choose.”
Dimitri knew what Saradon meant. He could enjoy his fair share of riches if he chose, but they both knew revenge was more important than gold.
“How do we make it so?” Dimitri asked, envisioning the green and prosperous land once more, daring to wonder what a fair court would look like.
“All I need is to break from the shackles of my self-imposed prison,” said Saradon, sighing. “I have power I never could have dreamed of, but it is wasted, trapped here.”
“Forgive me, Lord, but how came you by it? All the tales tell of your struggles with magic and your use of...arcane methods,” Dimitri dared to ask, phrasing it as delicately as he could.
Saradon’s mood flickered, but no anger rolled over Dimitri. “It is enough to know that is not true,” he said in a tone that brooked no further questions, but Dimitri was not satisfied. It did not answer what he had asked, and he knew Saradon had sidestepped his true question.
Nonetheless, he nodded in acquiescence, even as his thoughts strayed once more. The portrait of Saradon, dark and evil. There, he was the darkness engulfing the light, yet the Saradon Dimitri found himself with seemed to hold himself as the opposite, a pinprick of light fighting against a growing dark.
History is told by the victors, Dimitri reminded himself.
“Arcane powers may be misjudged,” Saradon said, as if he could read his most private thoughts. Dimitri hoped he could not. “Besides, magic is neither evil nor good. Magic is whatever and however it is chosen to be wielded. All magic can be used to do good, as ours shall.”
And evil, thought Dimitri, recalling the charred bodies of the false traitors. “What would you have me do?”
“Retrieve the stone without delay and bring it to me. Once I have the relic and the stone, I shall rise once more.”
Dimitri bowed and left.
Thirty-Eight
When she stopped that night, the huge city that was crowned with lights twinkling from every window still in sight, Harper’s confidence faded. Her senses seemed sharpened and on edge as she settled in a hollow in the shadow of an old, gnarled tree, feeling exposed and vulnerable amongst the sweeping plain that undulated and rose to Tornai.
Harper settled upon the dry grass, realising that without Aedon's help, she probably could not light a fire. She also had no food. As if a reminder, her stomach rumbled in sullen rebellion. When had she last eaten a proper meal, one that made her feel as though her sides would burst? Not since a few days prior when Ragnar had cooked a small boar with tubers and wild herbs, making gravy from the juices...
Harper’s stomach growled even louder at the thought. She groaned in annoyance that she had found nothing to sustain herself, for the plains seemed entirely barren after the bounty of the woods.
Had it been this cold of an evening in the forest, or was she only noticing it because she was out in the open where there was no shelter from the breeze? Harper hugged her arms around herself and rubbed her upper arms.
A strange cry split the air, making her jump. Her head whipped toward the source of the sound. She remained motionless for several seconds, her entire body tense.
"What was that?" she whispered, feeling vulnerable. She glanced around, but saw nothing against the darkening sky.
Harper adjusted herself, trying to stave off her numb posterior and back from where she leaned against the tree trunk, which dug into her body uncomfortably. The dagger nudged her side. With a slightly shaky hand, she drew it from the sheath and placed it at her side, then wrapped her cloak around herself.
For what good it does, at least I'm ready.
With a sigh that sounded as loud as a shout to her fraught senses, she realised she really had no idea what it took to protect herself from whatever lay out there. Just as she had begun to feel confident with some of Brand's training, it was over all too suddenly, and she was painfully aware how little she knew of it all.
There would be no chance of sleep. Haunted by the scurrying of nighttime creatures through the grass and across the earth around her, their cries, which were far too loud and close for comfort, only heightened her nerves. A hunter she may have been, but it had been many years since she had to sleep under the stars with no protection or company.
The creatures stayed away, for which she was thankful, but her frayed nerves would not allow her to rest. Long into the night, Harper kept her silent vigil, feeling as though she slowly turned into a cold, lonely, stone sentinel.
HARPER MUST HAVE EVENTUALLY slept, for the next morning, she awoke with a start, cold, stiff, and covered in dew, just like the world around her. Blades of grass glittered, crowned with jewels of water.
They adorned her hands with cold kisses as she pushed from the ground to stand, stretching her limbs, wishing she could banish her aches and pains and fill her empty stomach, which gnawed at her relentlessly now. She sighed. There was no point in waiting. There was clearly going to be no breakfast service that day.
Tournai was closer than she had realised, the road in the valley already full of morning trade and travel. She gawked at the gigantic city, just like how she had imagined Denholme that first time before seeing the grimy and pale reality of the citadel of her county.
A city of white stone rose from the plains, nestling into the steep cliffs of the mountains. A great palace, with hundreds of windows which caught the morning sunlight, and crowned with crenelations, topped the walled city.
As she drew closer, she squinted at the wall. It was taller than she had imagined, pierced by windows and even balconies at the highest levels, as if there were perhaps dwellings within it.
Watchtowers rose even farther, spaced by crenelations matching the castle’s, as if the wall and the towers were a crown surrounding the city. She could see little inside the walls, only what rose above her, which was a tangle of buildings and roofs.
Now that she could see Tournai before her, the tingle of nerves and excitement in her belly churned together. She bounced on the balls of her feet as she increased her pace, her aching, stiff joints and empty belly forgotten. Aedon, his companions, and their mission were discarded for the moment, pushed to the back of her mind as it filled with grand thoughts of dragons, kings, and adventure.
I’m nearly there!
It was every bit as grand as she had imagined. A grin split her face. Soon, she would be inside exploring, and with any luck, able to see dragons and the Winged Kingsguard up close.
Harper's gaze slowly rose, drinking in every detail and straining to see more, despite being a distance away. Far above the palace, she saw more construction in the same white stone, great openings in the side of the mountain itself. Her heart constricted when she saw great, winged shapes, far too large to be birds, wheeling in the sky above it.
"I wonder if that's where the dragons live," she murmured to herself.
She joined the throng of people flooding toward the city, marveling at the variety of beings she saw. Humans of all skin colours. Elves, some on foot and some on horseback. Shorter statured people – dwarves, Harper presumed – moved along with the crowd. Men, women, and children of all ages surrounded her. Winged beings, Aerians, occasionally landed in the crowd. Harper wondered if perhaps they were not permitted to fly to the city. She could think of no other reason why they would choose to land.
Carts drawn by draught horses or donkeys carrying all kinds of loads bumped, rolled, and groaned around her, some covered and some open. The smell of their wares mingled with that of the crowd – sweat, smoke, and dirt, the faint fragrance of perfume and soap threading throughout. The clamou
ring of voices was as overwhelming as the sound of the crowd. Shouting, chattering, and calling all around her, the clopping of animals, and the creak and racket of the carts.
The rising sun was warm, and Harper soon started sweating under her cloak. The heat did not help the smell, either. The faint whiff of excrement from all the animals rose too, so Harper breathed through her mouth, carefully stepping over the steaming piles of manure so as not to trail her cloak in them.
Harper gawked, unable to stop staring. As they drew closer to the city and the imposing white walls, she had to crane her neck more and more to look at them. This close, she could no longer see over them. They towered over the rush of people climbing the incline from the wide valley. She could clearly see the windows and balconies now.
Drying clothes hung from the highest, the coloured garments flying in the breeze. Flags whipped back and forth high above them, too far away for her to see the crest. Occasional faces, which were just pale blobs from such a distance, peered over battlements or flashed past windows.
The crowd bunched together as people waited to pass through the gate. From the middle of the pack, Harper shuffled along with the rest of them. She could now see soldiers lining the way. Their gleaming armour shone in the sun, and she wondered if they were uncomfortable under the weight of it and their ceremonial red cloaks. Suddenly, her own cloak did not feel so oppressive.
Suddenly, it all felt overwhelming. The crowd pressed closer, and with every step, people bumped against her body, feet kicked her legs. She glared at those surrounding her, but was entirely ignored. With a protective arm around herself, she glanced up at the gates looming over her. The crowd passed through in a constant stream.
Anxiety tempered her excitement. Where was she supposed to go? The city looked huge. Where was she to start? Who should she seek? Should she try to go to the palace first?
