by Meg Cowley
"North of Tournai. Why did he let us go, Harper?” The suspicion in his voice was clear.
“I don’t know. I don’t understand anything he does,” Harper said with an edge of hysteria. “I don’t understand who to bloody trust anymore!”
Brand seemed to relax at her obvious agitation. “Let’s go. We can figure it out later.”
The trees were tall, dark sentinels silently standing on the steep hills. Harper turned, holding her breath. Only the faintest trace of wildlife was audible on the breeze.
"It's quiet here," she murmured.
"Rather too quiet. Let's go. We have a rendezvous point to make, and we cannot be delayed."
"Can't we fly there?" she asked as she scurried after him. She wasn't overly keen on going back to the skies, but it would have been faster.
"No. We don't want to be seen. The trees will give us better cover. Come now. The less talking, the better."
They jogged through the forest until it was pitch black, then slowly picked their way through until they emerged from the edge of the trees where the moonlight lit their way better. It had been hours since they had parted company with Aedon, Ragnar, and Erika. Harper's anxiety gnawed at her. Were they okay? There was no way to know.
When bulky, misshapen figures appeared between the trees, Harper started to rush forward.
"Wait." Brand's command halted her. "Possible hostiles. Blade out. On your guard."
When the three figures drew close enough to see, relief flooded Harper. Aedon, Erika, and Ragnar approached, each on horseback.
"Well met," Brand said, as though they had stumbled on each other by chance on a relaxing summer stroll.
"Another job well done." Aedon grinned. "Are you two all right?”
Harper grinned shakily. She hurt all over, and her nerves felt like they were frazzled beyond repair, but the bubble of relief consumed her. "Never better. How did you know that staircase was there? And your escape route? And where did you get horses?"
"Lucky hunch." Aedon shrugged. “And I’m tired of walking.”
Erika snorted. "Lucky hunch, my left arse cheek. It's not the first time we've raided that henhouse, if you catch my drift. We always research all the entry and exit routes. You never know when you might need one."
"Come now. We need to be far from here by dawn, then we can rest," Brand chivvied them along. Ragnar yawned, but nodded.
THEY TREKKED THROUGH the night. Harper was so weary, her eyes shut of their own accord, threatening to send her to sleep on her feet. She did not know where they headed or for how long or far, but she obediently put one foot in front of the other, doggedly following Brand, until he finally halted.
She sank to the ground with a sigh of relief and promptly went to sleep.
THE SUN WAS HIGH WHEN she woke, seeing the rest of the camp already awake. Near the fire, Aedon sat chatting with Erika, who tended to her weapons. Ragnar was their silent companion, busy carving a twig with his knife. Brand flitted through the trees on the fringes of camp, no doubt keeping watch. They now had the Kingsguard of Tournai and the elves of Tir-na-Alathea chasing them. And perhaps Dimitrius too, whatever his agenda entailed.
Would any of them ever give up? She did not yet know what to make of the third. She fleetingly wondered how many other enemies Aedon and his friends had made over the years before a pang of hunger wiped such non-essential thoughts from her mind.
Harper sat up and stretched with a groan.
"Morning," said Aedon with a grin, though judging from the position of the sun, it was clearly afternoon.
"Morning," she said through a yawn.
"I think you owe us another story." Aedon glanced from her to the rest of them. "A rescue for a story. That seems to be a tradition we're making. Tell us what in Pelenor happened – and how the spymaster is embroiled in all of this." His tone grew more cold at the end, and Harper knew Brand had told him exactly how their escape had succeeded.
"Only if you tell me how you escaped Tournai,” she said, more carefree than she felt.
Unable to resist, Aedon puffed out his chest. "Naturally. I'm happy to recount our escapades!"
Erika rolled her eyes.
Harper told them what had happened since they had parted, not sparing a detail of her treatment in the dungeons, nor her inexplicable encounters with Dimitrius or her audiences with the king. They listened to her in silence. Once she was done, she looked around at them, cringing under their gazes.
“Well...” Aedon blew out a breath. “The bastard’s still plotting away, I see. Goodness knows on what. You were just a pawn to him in whatever scheme he has, Harper.”
She nodded, though she was not entirely convinced. Some of the moments with the spymaster had felt genuine.
You were in a court of lies and shadows. Don’t be so foolish. He was using you. You’re back where you belong now.
But still, she could not banish those violet eyes, the way they burned with so much unspoken feeling, making her long to understand his story. Harper cleared her throat.
“Well, we agreed a tale for a tale. What’s your story?”
Aedon told her of their gallant escape. After sneaking out of the dragon hold using hidden ways Aedon knew – though he would not tell her how – and with fresh sets of Kingsguard cloaks and helmets, they had “commandeered” three horses and rode from the city.
“You make it sound easy,” Ragnar murmured in disbelief.
"That's hardly as daring as our escape," Brand said.
"Perhaps not, but it required just as much guts." Aedon grinned crookedly.
Brand scoffed.
"Where to now?" Harper asked.
Now that she finally had a moment to think, with her life not in imminent danger, it struck her that she was once more without a way home. The city of Tournai, the king and his magic, were closed to her.
"To continue our quest," said Aedon. "Now we have a way to cure the sickness and eradicate it."
Harper’s attention snapped to him. "Really?"
"Erika?" He looked at the quiet woman.
Erika stirred. "We had our own task to complete before we could think of rescuing you. I'm sure you understand. There is a particularly ancient text in the citadel archives that references an everlasting potion. If you can find this mystery ingredient – the Dragonheart – and have the method to use it correctly, you can make an infinite supply from the smallest drop.”
She pulled out a tightly rolled scroll that looked hundreds of years old. "Now we can spread the cure as far as it is needed, for we have the perfect way to make enough to heal anyone and everyone afflicted."
"How is it done?" Harper whispered in awe.
“As luck would have it, an oft forgotten piece of magic that, when combined with the stone, has staggering potential,” Aedon replied. He bobbed on the balls of his feet, unable to contain his excitement. "Can you believe it? The key to the cure was under our nose this entire time. I cannot believe I did not think of it. They don't dilute the potion, but make it so that there is more volume in precisely the correct proportions.”
Aedon dipped his head to her. "The choice is yours, Harper. We would be mighty grateful for your assistance. I’m afraid our Dragonhearts were lost in the escape.”
Erika shot him a glance.
Aedon returned it, shrugging. “Lost, used... What does it matter? Semantics. I had no choice if we were to escape alive.”
Harper glanced between them, determined to find out what had happened in the vaults. That fire was...uncontrollable.
“We’re alive, but we only have your Dragonheart now, Harper,” Aedon said. “May we?”
Brand strode back into camp. "No scouts that I can see. Perhaps we outran them, or maybe your charms have worked better than the last time we fled, Aedon."
Aedon winced. He would not live down that the elves of Tir-na-Alathea had tracked them so easily for quite some time, Harper surmised. She stifled a small smile.
"We're safe for today?" Ragnar asked.
/>
"For today, and it's worth us lying low and resting. We have a tough journey ahead, even with the horses to speed our return. On the morrow, we must leave with the dawn."
Aedon turned to her, his face filled with expectant hope.
There were so many other questions she had – about Aedon’s fearsome display of magic, about Dimitrius. Yet one was most pressing upon her mind.
Another journey, thought Harper, but am I to join them on it?
Fifty-Six
Aedon swung his cloak around his shoulders and fastened the clasp around his neck. Behind him, Brand, Ragnar, and Erika waited, eager to put distance between themselves and the king, and to return to the village with the cure.
He turned to Harper, who was ready and waiting, too. She had never before appreciated how beautiful freedom was. Every blade of grass seemed greener, the rustle of the trees a sweeter lullaby, the kiss of the breeze on her face and the warmth of the sun more sensuous. The morning sun bathed them in light, and the clear skies were filled with the promise of better things.
"So..." he said, his tone deliberately light, but Harper could see the worry that lurked within. "Do we have one more to journey with us on our quest?"
Harper scanned their faces. Anxiety lurked in the pit of her stomach. Each bore the same grim, yet carefully blank expression and stood with bated breath, waiting for her answer.
"I wouldn't want to be anywhere else," she said. "If you'll have me, that is." She hesitated. They had parted on such poor terms, and even though they had come to rescue her, she still felt some kind of rift there. She was sure Erika would bear a grudge.
"You're one of us now," Brand said. Ragnar nodded in agreement, and even Erika jerked her head in what seemed to be support.
Harper's smile widened. "Thank you."
"Let's go," said Aedon, turning away. "Not another second to waste. People are counting on us.”
They mounted their three horses, and Aedon offered a hand to pull Harper up onto his mount.
This is the right choice, isn't it? she asked herself, even though something had settled in the pit of her stomach that told her it was. For the first time, she felt as though she lived the life she had always sought. It didn't seem to be a dream, though she had worried it was at first.
Moreover, she had a new family here, of sorts. Another foster family that was even more bizaare than her life in Caledan. Now that she had returned to them, it was like slipping on a glove that fit perfectly. They were as at ease with her as she was with them. Somehow, she fit in, in her own strange way, though there was still room for her to find her feet.
“Come on, Harper. We haven’t got all day.” Aedon grinned and beckoned with his hand. Smiling, she grasped it and he pulled her up behind him.
For the first time in a long while, Harper felt alive. In that moment, she did not care when or if she returned to Caledan. For now, she had a new home, a new adventure, and she could not wait to see what happened next.
On to cure the sickness – and whatever lay beyond.
Fifty-Seven
When he was certain Harper and her companions had escaped, as certain as he could be that they would be safe, Dimitri left, as well, slipping through the world and racing to Saradon’s tomb with the largest Dragonheart he had found.
It had only been too easy to take it from Aedon’s unknowing hands. Dimitri allowed himself a smirk. How Aedon would despise accidentally helping his worst enemy. It was the perfect cover. The thief would be blamed once more for the loss. Dimitri would escape with no suspicion upon his head.
He marvelled at the well of power within it, greater than even his own. His blood sang with anticipation. It is time. At last!
Back in the cave, Dimitri took a moment to adjust to the strange sense of crushing power that always seemed to leave him reeling and dizzy. He sent out a greeting to Saradon, who responded with a magical touch of his own and the rumbling sense of his presence awakening. Silent, Dimitri offered the stone to the sarcophagus.
He felt Saradon’s interest instantly snap to the white-hot star of power in his hands. It was so powerful, it threatened to shred his own energy and absorb him. He fought to keep his own magic from it, lest it devour him. It seemed to be exactly what Saradon wanted, for Dimitri felt his approval and excitement.
His own life-beat was light and fast compared to Saradon’s – a slumbering, ponderous, pulsing vitality that lay deep in the stone, under the swirls of glowing glyphs.
“Place it on the sarcophagus,” Saradon commanded.
Dimitri obeyed and stepped back. In the living world, the Dragonheart seemed innocuous, a rock upon a pile of stone. But when Dimitri sank into the magical river of energy, let it bathe him, the stone brightened to a star, undimmed, pure – and powerful.
At its touch, the scripts upon the sarcophagus seemed to wriggle and shift before Dimitri’s eyes, sinking into the vortex of swirling energy. They fell into it with glowing splashes, and the energy expanded and brightened with each rune that dropped into it.
Saradon’s voice rose around Dimitri, a monotone drone in a language he did not understand, but one charged with the buzz of magic that lifted every hair on Dimitri’s skin, prickles crawling across him.
What is he doing? Something about the magic felt dark, wrong, as if the energy were tainted. What arcane magic has he learned? A part of him wondered if he were right to have aided Saradon in rising.
Dimitri backed away as the energy constricted and sank into the sarcophagus, which melted into golden sparks until it was entirely absent. They swirled into a mass, the outline of an elf-shaped form materializing, which rose on the stone base to stand before him. Slowly, the swirling golden marks coalesced into the form of a man, one Dimitri recognised only too easily as the glowing magic sank into his skin.
Violet eyes pierced Dimitri’s as Saradon beheld him, then his stern visage broke into a grim smile. Slowly, Saradon slipped his eyes shut and deeply breathed the stale air of the cave as if it were the sweetest meadow breeze. He flexed his lithe, strong arms, clenching and unclenching his ring-adorned fingers, causing the fabric of his bell-shaped sleeves to bunch around his forearms. He ran his hands through loose, black hair that fell to his shoulders in waves, as perfect as the day he had been lain to rest, and fingered his neat, closely cropped beard, which had also been preserved.
Saradon’s gaze dropped to examine his form with wonder and a buzz of anticipation that was palpable to Dimitri before he grinned a triumphant, wolfish smile.
“It feels most wonderful to breathe again,” Saradon said, inhaling a deep breath once more.
The tang of raw power still burned Dimitri, seeming to sear his skin. He smiled uncertainly, wondering if Saradon had been as mentally preserved as he had been physically.
“You have my unending gratitude, Lord Ellarian,” Saradon said, turning his attention to Dimitri once more.
He bowed. “What next, Lord Ravakian?”
“Revenge,” Saradon said, savouring each syllable of the word. “Revenge on the royal line of Pelenor, and their abhorrent sins. Then the restoration of order and fairness to Pelenor, and as far afield as can be touched by my hands.”
Dimitri smiled, a tight-lipped one of approval, as anticipation curled in his stomach. It would not be long before he would not return to Tournai as Dimitrius Vaeri Mortris, the king’s spymaster, snapping at heels to find small favour. Soon, he would return as the right hand of Saradon and the new order.
He had accomplished a mission beyond his wildest dreams. Now he stood a chance of overturning Pelenor’s ruling class as Saradon’s chief advisor. For once, he would be at the helm.
It was time to show his hand.
It was time to break the wheel.
It was time to build a new world.
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Court of Shadows (Pelenor Chronicles Book Two)
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