Page 25 of Heart of Shadows

He flinched at her scathing tone. “I can’t be. Just trust me.”

“Why do you care for her? Has she corrupted you?” Erika grabbed the front of his shirt and wrenched him to her, glaring up at him as though she could see such magics with her mortal eyes.

“I don’t care,” he protested, extricating himself, “but can you not see? I believe she is who she says she is, and that something terrible—inexplicable even—has happened to her. That Mark could mean nothing to her in her homeland. You presume too much.”

“I presume nothing,” Erika spat. “Forget that. If she bears his Mark, she is nothing but trouble and we ought to stay clear. We should take the Dragonheart and leave her if you will not kill her.”

Aedon glanced at her, eyebrow raised. “That’s harsh, even for you.”

Erika shrugged and met his stare unabashed. “So? You’ve always wanted one. Now’s your chance. We’ll use it for the greater good—she clearly has no idea what she carries. We have no need of her and the dark scum she associates with, so we leave her. Win-win.”

Ragnar shifted his weight. Aedon could see the dwarf’s discomfort. “That might be too extreme, Erika. I could have called you the same—dark scum—for the stain of your past.”

“How dare you!” She whirled on him, blade drawn in a moment. “I’ll do it if you are too timid.” Erika made as if to stride toward the sleeping girl, but Aedon stepped into her path and stared her down, his fists clenched and his jaw set. Gods above, the nomad was too quick to find her temper, and her judgement was oft swift and harsh. Brand angled so that he blocked her too.

“It’s not a case of nerve. It’s a case of decency. It seems this girl has nothing, just like us—just like the people we help. Why should we take from her without giving something back?” And, Aedon was curious about her, though he would not admit it. She must have been someone of note for her to come to Pelenor in such circumstances. He did not believe in coincidence.

“What do you suggest, elf? We ask her nicely?” Erika mocked, but he held his ground, drawing himself up to his full height to tower over her. It did not intimidate her in the slightest, but that was not his intention. She subsided when she realised he was resolute.

“We could ask her,” said Aedon, “but seeing as we cannot be quite sure of her motivations, perhaps we ought to let her stay with us for a while. Find out more about her and this Dragonheart. Discover where she truly comes from, because it cannot originally be Caledan, whether she knows it or not.”

“There’s no need to be so hasty indeed,” said Ragnar, standing beside Aedon.

Erika glared at him until the dwarf dropped his gaze, then turned her attention to Brand.

“I agree with the elf,” said Brand. “Can you vouch for her—that you sense no malice within her?”

“I can.” Aedon replied firmly. “We are more than capable of protecting ourselves from her if the need arises—but I do not think it will. I think it is a twist of fate that brought her to us. Let us see where this path leads. Draw out her tale. Play it to our advantage however we can. One way or another, she will travel with us, and so the Dragonheart will, too, and any threat she poses.”

“We can keep an eye on her,” Brand said, throwing a troubled glance between Erika and Harper. “If she means to harm us, we shall not be caught unawares.”

Erika scowled. “Well, we’re done here then.” She stalked back to the fire, threw herself down on the furs there, and said no more. Brand shrugged and ambled after her, settling on the furs beside her, but her back remained firmly turned to him. Ragnar followed, placing some more boughs gently on the fire so it kept them warm through the night.

Aedon whispered his thanks and arranged his furs in a soft pile. From his position, he saw the gleam in Erika’s eyes, her attention fixed on Harper across the fire. The nomad would keep a close eye on their guest that night in light of what they had just discovered. He felt safe, knowing that. Nothing got past Erika—and he could not blame her. Before he closed his eyes, he cast one more troubled glance to Harper, wishing for answers that the darkness could not give them.

Who are you, Harper? What is your story? Why did you come to us?

22

HARPER

Harper’s first night in Pelenor was miserable. Between her teeth chattering, the screech of unfamiliar wildlife far too close for comfort, and Brand’s thunderous snores waking her seemingly every minute, Harper awoke the next morning feeling almost as tired as when she had lain down, and ten times as achy from the tree roots and rocks that had stabbed into her back all night. She groaned and sat up, rolling her neck and shoulders to try and ease the pain, as Aedon bounded into camp with a grin on his face and something dangling between his fingers.

Harper raised an eyebrow. Her stomach grumbled. “Morning.”

“Good morning, Harper. Ready for breakfast, I hope.” He held up the young boar. “Do you want to skin it?”

Harper’s eyes widened, and she stuttered a non-committal response.

“You don’t do that back home?”

“Well, yes, if you’ve got a skinning knife, but I’m a terrible cook,” she admitted, chewing on her lip.

Aedon batted a hand through the air. “Pfft. Any skill can be learned. You obviously haven’t had a good teacher. Apprentice yourself to Ragnar. He’s a master of the campfire.”

Harper stood and smoothed the creases in her tunic, but swiftly gave up and ambled over to Ragnar. He rebuilt the fire, blowing on the smoldering embers and dressing them with fresh old man’s beard—the same lichen she used in Caledan to start fires—and kindling sticks to breathe new life into it.

As she watched, scooting closer, Ragnar quietly pulled over a flat-topped rock and set to work. He skinned the small animal, extracted the innards, and cut the joints of meat precisely and cleanly with a small knife, just as Harper would have. It was nothing she did not already know, had not already done a hundred times, though rarely on an animal as fine and meaty as that. The knife had the extensive wear of a much-loved tool. Its worn handle was similarly patched up like her own, and the tiny blade precise in his rough, knobbly fingers. Once Ragnar had finished, she helped him skewer the steaks upon sticks, then sank them into the earth to hover over the fire.

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