Page 16 of Heart of Shadows

The Dragonheart lay beside her in a circle of charred greenery and blackened earth. When she dared to touch the stone, Harper quickly snatched her hand away, but this time, the bottom of the world did not drop away from her. She reached out with shaking fingers to rest her hand atop the stone again. Smooth facets, sharp edges, and rough planes grazed her skin.

“Where am I?” she whispered. The breeze caught her words and tossed them away. Her chest tightened and her breath stuttered as panic clutched her. Of course, the summer skies gave no reply. Harper suppressed the urge to whimper and stood on shaky legs. She picked up the Dragonheart and clutched it so tightly that its rough edges dug into her palm. And still, that edge of pain did nothing to carve through this dream.

A wave of dizziness overtook her, her stomach growling in protest. When had she last eaten? She could barely remember. Some rushed morsel at the inn, leftovers from a patron’s plate to avoid an empty stomach. Not enough to sustain her shaking, exhausted frame. She had nothing. Berries grew in the trees around her—tauntingly out of reach—but she did not know these trees. That treasure could have been sustenance or poison, and she would not know which until it was too late.

She examined herself. Stains covered her from head to toe. Her cloak hem was completely sodden from the snow, right through to her leggings. The cold, clammy fabric clung to her skin, stealing what little warmth the sun afforded her. As she looked around, it was clear it was still late summer or early autumn, though it seemed far milder in comparison. Many of the trees were green and lush, some just beginning to yellow. It was painfully bright and colourful compared to even the finest days in her dreary corner of Caledan.

There was nothing for it. It was the middle of nowhere. No matter how hard she strained her ears, she heard no trace of civilisation. She turned in a circle. Judging from the slope of the ground, she stood atop a hill, though she could not see much of the horizon for all the trees crowding around. No visible paths led in any direction. Harper scanned the trees. No breaks that might signal a road. Through the trees, mountains soared into the heights of the sky. Harper frowned. There weren’t any mountains like that where she lived. She swallowed again, forcing down the nerves that threatened to boil over. “Just out for a walk, Harper.” With your Dragonheart.

However, she cursed at a sudden realisation. She felt in her cloak pocket, fingers stretching right into the corners in the desperate hope one of them hid a secret treasure—as silly as that was to hope for. Lint, a single copper, and the leather bracelet with a single metal charm that she always kept with her was all she had. All her coin was at home. In her box of trinkets and treasures with her precious book, and Betta. How far away was she?

Her heart sank. She spun around wildly, but still, no familiar points of reference jumped out at her. Harper swallowed, tucked the Dragonheart into the crook of her arm, and drew out her bracelet. The worn leather was smooth, the bead of metal cold. She ran a fingertip lightly over the emblem stamped into it, a circle split by a waving line, wondering as she always did what it meant to the person who had it before her. She had possessed it as long as she remembered. Knowing nothing of her past, it was as close to an heirloom as she had. She normally kept it tucked inside her garments so it did not get stolen by one of the many pickpockets and tricksters who frequented the inn or the town. On a whim, she tied it around her bony wrist and took comfort from having something familiar with her in the strange place.

There was nothing else for it. Harper chose a direction at random and walked. The breeze blew the sweet air at her, and she wondered just how far she was from civilisation. There could not be any towns close by. She had not smelt air this clean in years, not unless she went to the depths of the mountain foothills far from the village. There was no pollution on it, a welcome change from the woodsmoke and stench of fish that clogged the air at home.

As the sound of running water crescendoed, Harper stepped under the shadow of the trees, marveling at their size. Looking much like what she recognised as silver birches, they soared into the heights, standing twice as tall as those at home. Out here, she reckoned they had much better soil. Ahead, shattered light sparkled through the trees. A stream. She ran to it, sank to her knees, and cupped her hands so she could scoop up water. She drew in long draughts of it, dipping her hands in several times. Far sweeter than the tainted water of the river in her village.

“All rivers lead to the sea…” she muttered, and followed the trickle of water downhill. Before long, the streamside became a track well worn by animals passing. The faintest trace of woodsmoke lingered on the breeze, tugging her downhill. She quickened her step. Fire could only mean one thing. People. And people meant help.

Thatched roofs tucked amongst the gradually thinning trees as the decline of the ground levelled out into the valley. Harper’s breath was ragged after the steep and strenuous descent. The ache crept right up her neck and stiffened her shoulders. Harper narrowed her eyes as she looked at the village. Mud and wattle walls, held together by strong, wooden beams, upheld the thick, thatched roofs. There were no streets here, only hard-packed earth paths barely wide enough for a cart to pass. Donkeys and draught horses pulled carts piled high with straw, wood, food, and other wares.

Her mouth fell open. Atop a cart stood a man who was clearly no human. He looked like an elf straight from her beloved tales—pointed ears, slim build, fine features. Slouching in a doorway was a short, stout fellow, as grumpy as she had ever seen, wearing plated leather armour and with a wiry beard taking over half his chest. Seeing a shadow too large for a bird’s passing, she looked up. A giant woman with the wings of a great bird of prey alighted behind one of the buildings. Harper’s eyes glazed over as she watched the bustle before her, and a whimper escaped her lips. She stopped in the middle of the dirt track.

At an unintelligible shout behind her, in a tongue she had never heard before, she whirled around. With a squeal, she dived out of the way to save herself from being mowed down by a passing horse and cart. As she regained her balance, the village faltered around her. She looked around, seeing everyone turned toward her. Eyes widened. Mouths muttered behind hands. A whisper sounded around her. Brows furrowed. A thickset man strode towards her, shouting in a strange tongue and pointing at the Dragonheart, which had tumbled from her grip to land upon the packed earth for all to see.

“I don’t understand. Do you speak the Common Tongue?” Harper stammered. Foreboding curled up her spine, the unwelcome thought like a claw down her back—she was no longer in Caledan. That meant… She shut down the tendril of uncertain worry.

“Common Tongue?” he growled, his voice thickly accented.

“Yes.” She latched onto the suggestion gratefully.

Another man stepped forward, his brows furrowed, a suspicious scowl upon his face as he pointed toward the stone. “Where did you get that Heart of Dragons?” His accent was almost too thick to understand, but his anger was clear.

She snatched the stone from the dirt and clutched it to her chest. “I found it.” She did not mention the fact that that seemed to have been in a different country, though now she began to think it was an entirely different world.

“Lies! By the order of the king, all Dragonhearts are held at the capital!” the man retorted.

The crowd advanced on Harper. She took a step back. A woman cried out from the back of the crowd, her shout savage and her tone clear, though Harper did not understand her words. The babble of exclamations and accusations crescendoed.

“Thief!” she heard amongst the foreign tongues. “Criminal!”

People spat on the ground toward Harper as they continued to cry out in the tongue she could not understand.

“I didn’t steal anything!” she protested, stepping back as heat flooded through her. Her cloak felt as though it smothered her as the crowd constricted around her. “It appeared in the midst of the storm!”

“What storm?” the man barked. “A lie!”

“No, not here. I?—”

“The thief speaks Common Tongue. A foreigner!”

A soldier appeared ahead, drawn by the clamour. He wore leather armour and chainmail, his polished helmet gleaming in the sun. Yet the emblem upon his breast was not the fish and spear of Lord Denholme. Harper fled.

17

HARPER

Harper raced back into the woods, so quickly that her descent careened on the edge of control. Her legs juddered and her knees crunched with the force of each stride, sending bolts of pain spearing through her. The roar of the mob behind her spurred her on—the fear of being caught far outweighing her fear of tripping on the uneven ground. She leapt over exposed roots, and low branches whipped past her face. She cared not when they tangled in her hair, ripping out strands as she dashed past, because fear screamed louder than the pain in her veins.

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