Page 14 of Heart of Shadows

By the time he finished scanning through the stack of literature before him, Dimitri was still and chilled. He scanned the notes he had so far. They were nothing by themselves, but pieced together, he began to construct something. “Still too many pieces missing.” He sighed. And yet… He cocked his head, squinting at the map of Pelenor and the surrounding lands that sat beside him. It suggested that Saradon had been defeated and subsequently disappeared—but not killed. No body had ever been found. Could it have been nothing more than propoganda spread to calm the people, he wondered, whilst the truth was hidden or never truly known?

“Where would he have gone?” Dimitri asked himself. There were so many places Saradon could have hidden, both inside and outside Pelenor. Saradon did not seem the type to lie low and hold a grudge to the death, Dimitri mused. Not after what he had endured—and done. Throughout everything he saw ran a tantalising hint that Saradon had escaped in some way. What had happened?

Dimitri sent out his magic to search for more information on a particular mountain range that perhaps could hold the key to Saradon’s escape, then stilled. The magic dissipated, but he now had his answer. Dimitri could seek him. He would need more power and a relic that held magical resonance to Saradon, but it was possible. If he still existed in any form, Dimitri could find him.

If I am to take on his cause, by his name shall it be done, and Toroth will fear the both of us. He did not understand the scraps of prophecy and the mentions of Dragonhearts—yet. Dimitri hurried to return to his quarters and summon one of his associates, who soon appeared, well used to their master’s odd hours. Dimitri hesitated a moment. Even this was perhaps too much to trust to another, but Rook was the best at shadowy business such as this, and Dimitri could not risk being discovered. The lunar runes had given him a hare-brained idea, but an idea nonetheless.

“Find out where the Dragonhearts are kept presently.” He needed to know for certain for this to have any hope of working.

“Yes, Master.”

“And… ”

“Master?”

“Never mind. As quickly as you can.” He would seek out a relic himself. He already knew precisely where he would find one. Excitement thrummed through him as once more, he folded into smoke and wind.

14

DIMITRI

Dark. Earthy. Still. The silence was both peaceful and watchful. As he stood over the tomb of Saradon’s mother, Dimitri waited. Not for anyone else, but for his conscience to decide one way or another. It was one thing to speak of breaking the wheel and bringing a new power and peace to a land. Quite another to break into a grave. Desecration. Such a thing would leave a mark on a soul, a stain that would be hard to banish—even for him. The dead had earned the right to be left in peace. The way Karietta had died, she definitely earned her long rest. Her likeness atop the tomb even stared at him with reproach. He looked away.

The cold stroked its way down his spine, threatening to reduce him to shivers. Then Dimitri recalled the burning of the false traitors, and his resolve hardened. No other relics of Saradon existed. Everything had been destroyed, save this. A last gift to his mother, the only woman who had ever shown him true kindness and love, the only one he had ever cared for. It had only survived because no one had dared to do what he was about to—but Karietta was long dead, and the dead had no cares in the world of the living.

Before he could allow the seeds of doubt to grow, Dimitri split the tomb with a wave of his hand, the stone cracking before him as the slab atop the tomb moved. Dimitri trembled with the effort as he slid it aside with the strength of his magic. Open just a sliver, wide enough to retrieve something. He sent his magic to find what he hoped was still there—because although the dead did not care what he took from their corpses, he was not so naïve to think that they had left no curses on this place whilst alive. He sensed the crumble of fine fabrics as his magic passed, and shuddered at the smoothness of bone—and then he felt it with his power. The cold nothingness of metal. When it floated out, he grasped it, tucking it swiftly into a pocket and departing without a backward glance. He would not look at it just yet. The tomb snapped shut behind him.

With every footstep, his heart pounded at what he had done—the shock, the rush, the fear. And the excitement and adrenaline too, as far-fetched as his quest seemed, as infinitesimally small as his chances were. With a relic, he would find Saradon’s resting place. With a Dragonheart, he would discover the truth of the lunar runes one way or another. With the truth, he would find a way to cast down Toroth.

Rook brought him news with the dawn. The Dragonhearts were located precisely where he hoped they would not be—in the most secure of the royal vaults alongside the king’s most priceless treasures, from gold spoils to unhatched dragon eggs. He sent Rook away. He had answers—but now more questions too. Dimitri’s status would gain him access to some of the vaults, but not without the questions he needed to avoid.

Dimitri went about his usual business thinking of little else aside from how to obtain access to the Dragonhearts, only distracted by the unusual flurry of activity at court that day. There was no talk other than what had happened the day before, though most only dared speak in whispers, and away from the ears of the king.

Not far enough from Dimitri, however. His informants brought their whispers of fear and fury long into the following night. They knew exactly what the king had done and why. In building his power and wealth, Toroth had crippled strategic alliances and severed the trust between himself and the court. Dimitri allowed himself a little smile of satisfaction. He would use that to his advantage. He had already ordered Rook to infiltrate the destroyed households and turn their allegiance to his cause.

He would personally see to the rest, as difficult as it would be. He was already the subject of their suspicions. After all, who else would feed the king such information? It was an unneeded hitch, but not impossible to overcome. Especially when he told them all how Toroth had ordered him to plant false evidence. Of course, no one would dare to openly spread such treason—truth or not—but it would spread like wildfire nonetheless. How the king targeted his most loyal friends and subjects…

This would be too enjoyable to watch. But first, Dimitri needed to find out if there were any grounds to the prophecy.

That evening, Dimitri sealed himself in his chambers to prepare for the most daring part of his plan. With meticulous calm, he smoothed the cushions and placed himself upon the centre of the chaise, sitting cross-legged and straight-backed, with the cold metal of the relic in the palm of his hand. A silent talisman of confidence, reminding him why he did this. What was at stake.

Dimitri closed his eyes. He shut out the comfortable, warm room and the fire flickering before him. The fire he now felt a deep-seated unease around after the previous day. Every crackle was a reminder of those deaths. He still scented smoke—he couldn’t cleanse it from his nose. The taste of bitter ash had soured everything upon his tongue that day.

He inhaled a deep, slow breath and relaxed his hands upon his knees, before retreating deeper into his mind where the kernel of his power resided. Dimitri sent it into the dark, down through the city, seeking that bright core of energy and magic that would be the Dragonhearts in their vaults. The feather light presence of his shadowy magic too slight to be detected as he slipped past the wards, which were slumbering, exactly as Rook had said they would be. Nimbly, he danced past them all—the guards, the keeper doing his daily tally. He waited, unconsciously holding his breath as his spirit passed another round of guards. There was little time left before the wards closed. Dimitri opened his mind and sought out a Dragonheart.

It was pure, blinding light. Unbridled power. Nothing sentient. No slumbering dragon spirit, but an untapped well of energy that seemed limitless—and intoxicating. He latched onto it, melding his magic with its, familiarising himself with and revelling in the feel of it. He had transported other things through space and time before, but nothing as powerful as this. The footprint this left upon the magical plane was beyond anything he had sensed before. It knocked the very breath from his chest.

No wonder the king hoarded such a power, and Saradon had seemed invincible with it. The thought slipped out before he regained composure. This was much better than having a dragon, Dimitri realised. A dragon, a living thing of flesh and blood, susceptible to death and its own willfulness, was a liability. But the Dragonhearts—they were magic in its purest form, a well of power bound to the wielder. It was a heady thought that sent him soaring into euphoria with the boundless possibilities.

Focus, he admonished himself. Dimitri pulled the well of power closer, flexing the boundaries of his magic until he felt the strain of it holding every muscle in his body taut. Slowly, it shifted. He pulled harder. Sweat rolled down his forehead, stinging into his eyes, and his hands balled into fists, trembling, his fingers clenched so tightly his nails cut into his palms.

Eventually, and with agonising slowness, it moved to him. It accelerated as the ripple of magic raced through the world. But with its movement, a snap cracked through the fabric of the world. He felt the wards around his magic change from inert to active, recognising the theft. Seeking. Protecting. Dimitri bit down a curse and commanded the Dragonheart to him with the last ounces of his concentration, pulling his magic from the jaws of the protective wards. The Dragonheart wobbled in his power, tumbling through the unseen plane with his magic.

Saradon needs this. I need this.

The wards closed around Dimitri, chasing at the heels of his essence as he recalled every tendril of power into his body. Something felt wrong, but there was no time to question what. He was in a race to save his life. If those wards caught his spirit, it would be over. They snapped shut at the fringes of his magic, fizzling it with their stupendous power—magic he knew would kill him in an instant if he were to be snared by it—and then he was free, soaring back into himself.

He opened his eyes with a gasp and fell forward as the magic crashed back into him, catching himself before he toppled off the chaise. Karietta’s ring clattered onto the floor. Deep breaths tore through him as he staggered to his feet, overcome by dizziness and exhaustion, as if he had tried to lift a mountain with his bare hands. The tang of the wards’ magic seared his nostrils. He retched and bent double, holding onto the wall for support, because the room span. Every limb ached. The rush faded within him, giving way to pain.

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