Page 44 of Heart of Shadows

DIMITRI

Saradon looked as perfect as the day he had died, right down to the wave of still-raven hair upon his head that streamed across his shoulders. Not a hint of decay marred him. The question floated through Dimitri’s mind—he was dead, wasn’t he? Why else would he be in a grave? This was undoubtedly nothing else. A hidden shrine to a once great threat.

Dimitri ought to have left well alone. Sealed the place and left. Curiosity would not let him. Unconsciously holding his breath, Dimitri’s eyes trickled across the still form before him. Saradon’s eyes were shut—much to Dimitri’s relief—his face stern and taut, even in death. Anger ran down every line upon it.

His clothes were not too dissimilar to Dimitri’s own. The fine silken overjacket and matching pants, all embroidered in chasing patterns. Yet Dimitri could tell they were from a different time. The wider, flaring sleeves, loose-fitting bottoms, and shining knee-high boots on his muscled calves… It was dated compared to current court fashions.

A blade lay beside him. The match of the sword he wielded in the painting Dimitri had viewed in the royal galleries. The long, slim blade gleamed, and the ruby in the pommel was a larger sister to the signet ring. Saradon’s Mark gleamed upon it, inset in rose gold. Saradon’s fingers clenched around the grip, his hands covered in black gloves of a leather so fine, Dimitri had never seen its like. There was no hint of decomposition upon him. None that Dimitri could see or smell. Tentatively, to satisfy his own curiosity, he sent out a tendril of power toward Saradon’s still form, seeking something more. A spark of life, or the absence of it.

A power greater than his own snapped closed its jaws around him.

It froze Dimitri where he stood, gripping his mind and body in an instant. Dimitri could not even breathe. The magic seizing him felt ancient, foreign. An impenetrable wall of black adamant smothered his senses. It crushed and constricted him, squeezing his life and power out of existence. Dimitri threw up his mental shields. Had the magic allowed him an ounce of movement, he would have shaken with the effort of it. He had never encountered such overwhelming power.

There was barely an instant to wonder if Saradon had other innate elven gifts no one had known of, besides the magic he had been denied, or whether he had bought, bartered, or stolen the power that now surrounded Dimitri. He knew he only had a moment to fight back before the power winked him out of existence. It was the first time he had ever encountered a power so much greater than he that there was no hope of defeating it once it fractured his barriers and cracked his mind.

Saradon would own him, control him, and destroy him. Dimitri was not sure which one was worse. He sent out every ounce of energy he had, pushing back against the black adamant around him. The assault halted. A momentary curiosity sized him up. Dimitri felt the power well up again, so he appealed once more, holding Saradon’s Mark clear and firm in his mind. The attack halted again.

“Who are you?” a deep voice spoke in his mind.

The pressure drew back a little, allowing him the breath to answer. Dimitri gasped in the warm, stale air gratefully. “Dimitrius Vaeri Mortris of House Ellarian,” he choked out.

Anger rippled through him. Not his own, but that of the being who spoke to him. “I know of House Ellarian.” Memories that belonged to someone else flickered through him. Cruel faces. Darkness. Hate. Fire. Pain.

“I am not them,” Dimitri added hastily.

“Who dares disturb the rest of Saradon Ettrias Thelnar of House Ravakian?”

Excitement muddied by fear shot through Dimitri. Saradon was alive. Had somehow survived five hundred years of exile. How could it be? Dimitri was quick to answer, but not with his mouth. He pushed images of the kingdom at Saradon’s consciousness. He showed him Toroth’s greed and corruption, five hundred years of prejudice, bloodshed, and anger, and finally the burning of the false traitors in Saradon’s name. Rage shuddered through Dimitri as Saradon’s mood soured further.

“My name has been used in vain?” Saradon thundered.

“Yes, Lord. Five hundred years have passed and nothing has changed. Pelenor is as corrupt as ever it was.”

“Five hundred years?” His surprise rippled through Dimitri, swiftly replaced by anger once more. “Curse them all,” Saradon spat. “Why have you come?”

Now was his chance. “I want to break the wheel. I—” He fell into silence. He wondered what? Whether he could break the wheel himself? Whether somehow it would be possible to raise Saradon to do the selfsame thing, now that he had found him apparently in some stage of life or animation? He could be so much more than the talisman I sought.

“You wondered if you could use me.” Saradon’s accusing voice cut through his thoughts.

“No!” Dimitri hastily replied. “I find you here—alive?” he asked tentatively. A silent affirmation replied. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps we can ally for a common cause.”

“I have power. Why would I need you?”

The rumble of power threatened to sweep Dimitri away, but he felt how the magics twisted around him, more curious than angry. He cannot raise himself, Dimitri realised, somehow entirely certain of himself. “You cannot free yourself without assistance—without me.” Dimitri drew back, as if readying to leave, although, in the back of his mind, he was not entirely sure he could.

The foreign magics shrank back in surprise before tightening again. He felt Saradon scowl—though his body remained entirely immobile—and the magic trickled back again, prowling around him. Still a threat, but not an imminent one. “It was not meant to be five hundred years. Merely a temporary stasis. It seems I was let down.”

“There was a prophecy that you would rise again,” Dimitri suggested cautiously. “Is it true?”

Saradon snorted, and a dark rumble of laughter echoed around the cavern. “I will rise again. I care not for any prophecies made by the elves.”

Dimitri privately agreed, though he did not say it. “How is it done?” he asked instead.

“I would not trust that knowledge to anyone.”

“Then let me prove myself to you. I shall be your eyes and ears in the kingdom—and beyond, as the royal spymaster—and when you rise, I shall gather those that I can to your banners. I have already planned the fall of Pelenor.” Dimitri made it sound far more developed and grand than the wild idea it really was, but his resolve did not waver as he stood firm, knowing Saradon would be sensing him out.

“Why do you want this?” Saradon asked slowly. “Are you simply as greedy as the rest of them?” He sounded bored, but his voice held a bite of curiosity and still, that ever-present anger.

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