Page 39 of Heart of Shadows

“As you were doubled over dying.” Aedon stuck out his tongue. Brand returned the gesture with a ruder one of his own.

“See?” Ragnar said dryly. “No harm done.”

“Erika’s furious, though,” Harper said in a small voice, her eyes downcast. It tasted bitter, the frustration she felt—towards Erika and towards herself. This place was still so foreign to her that she still felt as though she was drowning but for the support of Aedon and his friends. Feeling so dependent on others stung, and she resented it. Failing them—having them think her weak? Even worse.

“Hmm. She’ll be fine. A little thing like an attempted poisoning won’t?—”

Harper glared at him, eyes full of hurt.

“I’m joking! She’s survived far worse. Believe me.”

“All the same, I think I’ll leave the cooking to you.” She was done. Done before words she couldn’t take back spilled from her mouth. Harper clambered to her feet and retrieved the pot from where it had bounced, then went to a different part of the stream, far from Erika, to rinse it out and fetch clean water. That would have to do for breakfast.

32

DIMITRI

Curiosity grappled with caution as Dimitri returned to Tournai, unsure whether he ought to have crushed them all and taken the stone—and not at all willing to evaluate why he had hesitated. Why did she have it? The question taunted him, and that stayed his hand more than anything else. Why her? Her storm-filled silver eyes stared him down defiantly as he thought of her—and there was something in that fearless challenge that enticed him. There had to be a reason, and he needed to know it.

It would be easiest of all to eliminate her—eliminate them all—and be done with it. Yet something faltered at that cold thought too. He balked at doing it for his own ends. He hated doing it for the king’s bidding, after all. Stooping so low as doing it for his own selfishness was a new line of depravity even he had not yet crossed.

He could not stop the tingle of excitement that added a spring to his step at the threads beginning to unite, however. He now knew where the Dragonheart was, though not the part it played. He had the relic. Now he would discover Saradon’s true fate. The moment he returned to his chambers in the sprawling palace, he took the relic from its hiding place, a nook deep within the impregnable castle walls that no one else could find. He still heaved a sigh of relief that the ring was there, that it had not mysteriously vanished or, worse, been discovered.

The large, oval, multi-faceted gem sat between golden claws twining around it. He looked inside the band, through the back of the ruby, and saw Saradon’s Mark, the riven circle, carved into the face of the gem with a perfection that only came from a master craftsman… or magic. He made to put it on his index finger, but stayed himself at the last second. Something about this ring felt different, and he had long been cautious of magical artefacts. It was innocuous, really. At a passing glance, it was a gem fit for a lord or lady, but nothing so garish as to draw undue attention. Was the little pulse of power he felt emanating from it his imagination? Dimitri squinted at it suspiciously, but it glittered in the bright lights with no hint of any dark purpose about it.

His fingers closed around the cold, smooth metal as his eyes slipped shut and he inhaled deeply—a focusing breath. His heart jittered at what he was about to do, but he ignored it, walling himself off from any emotions. He buried his mind into the ring in his palm, feeling it, understanding it, being it, until its essence and that of its previous owner filled his mind—for the ring had been in Karietta’s possession since her death, but its true owner had been Saradon.

Just like the Dragonheart, the tiniest thread burrowed into the distance, quickly vanishing, so tenuous was it. The ring was warm in his hand and hummed with energy. Dimitri focused on that, seeking its likeness as he sank into the void to follow the thread back to its owner. He slipped from the world and flitted through the shadows, skimming over distances like a stone over water. There were brief flashes of the landscape as he touched down or slowed for a moment. Sunset over the mountains. The deep, silent shadows of a forest. Open plains. The welcoming golden glow of a fire surrounded by travellers, a brief flash of warmth in the cold. The further he travelled, the more the relic warmed in his palm until it almost burned him.

Then, with a start, he was there, and stumbled uncharacteristically into rough stone that grazed his palms. Crushing weight. Pulsing silence. Energy charged around him, so strong it set every hair on his body on end. Dimitri blinked rapidly, clearing his eyes after the sudden rush of dizziness. His senses fired on full alert, ready to repel any attack. None came, though he could feel the magic of this place. It was so strong, it forced itself down his throat, through his skin, pushing itself into him as though it would absorb him if it could.

Daring a small faelight, he found himself in a small cavern with no entrance or exit. Sensing around him, far beyond the reach of his arms, the weight of the mountain atop him was a looming keeper, its essence slow and sonorous. The hand-hewn walls contained all manner of markings in a script he had never seen before, made so finely he knew it was magic that had scoured the marks from the rock, not the hand of man and chisel. He realised they captured the magic that sealed everything in. That magic pulsed through the air and stone of the cave, like the beating of his own heart. Despite the mountain’s cold stone all around, a heat burned him corrosively until the unpleasant prickle of sweat soaked his skin and the expensive, fine fabrics of his clothes.

He did not need to read the glyphs to understand the magic. The wards sealed the space with the worst magics he had ever felt—death, destruction, curses. Realising he held his breath, he released it in a slow whoosh when he noticed how the wards swirled lazily through the stone and air. Even though they felt him, and he could taste the threat behind their acrid, metallic tang, they did not seek him.

For the first time in many years, he felt a magic older and far more powerful than he. It could crush him in less than an instant. He rolled the ring between his fingers, feeling it hum with small vibrations against his skin—and realised that was what had given him safe passage. It protected him, he marvelled, staring at the innocuous jewellery. The likeness in the magic of the cavern recognised something resonant in the ring.

Dimitri widened his faelight, shining it on the corner of a raised structure. He cast it farther out and up, until the whole cavern was illuminated before him, bouncing his warm, golden faelight back at him with some strange red corruption. Tingles ran down his spine. Before him stood a great, stone sarcophagus. More glyphs adorned it. Many he did not know, but some Aurarian elvish runes were smattered here and there. They embossed the stone in a rosy metal he did not recognise. He glanced closer at the Aurarian runes, noticing they were not as he expected. Somehow changed, marred, their meanings cursed and corrupted. A shiver of dread lingered down his spine. Yet like called to like.

The sarcophagus inexorably pulled him closer.

The stone reached the top of his thighs, and now, looking down upon the surface, he saw the carvings continued in columns and rows, swirling clockwise from the bottom right to the centre of the great slab of stone, where there was a strange hollow. Dimitri leaned forward—careful not to touch the stone. The raw power rolling from it singed his senses. Either something powerful lay here, or it had sealed the tomb.

A tingle of fear stroked his spine, but Dimitri had come this far. He would not be denied now. If only he could figure out how to enter it without triggering the wards that lazily swirled under the surface. The answer he sought could be within that stone—and used to unite a rebellion. He scoured the runes. There appeared to be a void of magic in the centre of the stone where the runes and the magic ended. The little dimple looked like an accident, or as if something was there and had fallen out. Dimitri frowned and bent closer, holding back his tunic so it did not touch the stone.

In the hole lay a raised symbol. With a rush of energy, Dimitri understood. He uncurled his fingers and stared at the ruby in his palm. It had become almost burning hot. He felt around the gem until he found the flaw in the frame, then popped it from the setting. The giant ruby glittered in the warped light of the cave. Slowly, he lowered it to the sarcophagus and slipped the ruby into the hollow. It fit perfectly, one piece of a jigsaw to another, upon the Mark of Saradon carved into the stone.

The stone shuddered under his fingers as the ruby sealed against it. With a hiss, the lid of the sarcophagus creaked. Dimitri leaped backwards as it slid away and dissolved into swirls of sparkling magic. The glittering particles of light faded. Another tingle, one of fear and wonder, ran down Dimitri’s spine. He recognised the perfectly preserved face of the male within the tomb. Saradon.

33

HARPER

They were still days away from the plagued village. Harper spent the long days of endless trudging mostly in silence, dawdling at the back of the group, even farther behind than Ragnar. Not even Aedon could chivvy away her glum spirit after almost accidentally poisoning Erika. “She’s really not so bad once you get to know her, you know,” he said as they pushed their way through grass so long, it was as if they swam in it.

She made a non-commital grunt in response.

“Honestly, Harper. Chin up.”

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