Page 64 of Heart of Shadows

“Yet your anger is not directed at them.”

Dimitri started. He had not realised it still curled within him, like the embers of a fire that would not die. Before he could respond, Saradon had already stepped into his mind, living through his encounter with the king. He felt Saradon’s disdain for Toroth before he voiced it.

“What a detestable creature. The bloodline has not changed, I see. I shall enjoy casting him down.”

“And I will be glad to see it done by my hand also,” Dimitri said grimly. “The court is a cesspit of greed and selfishness. None more so than Toroth. The kingdom suffers at his hands, and I would see it end.”

“Not just Toroth, though?”

Dimitri realised that his thoughts had strayed to his father. “No,” he admitted. “I still have scores to settle with my father and brothers.” He had never really settled them to his satisfaction. With the court broken, he could seek retribution there too.

“And you shall see it done.” The cave faded away as Dimitri imagined it, not for the first time. Saradon’s voice caught him in the midst of his fantasy. “It will be a turning point for Pelenor. One that ought to have occurred five hundred years ago. I shall not be denied again.”

Dimitri found himself in unfamiliar visions. He flew as if on dragonback, but utterly weightless and without wind, over a lush, green vista. Blue skies reigned from east to west, across verdant valleys and rolling forests, and rivers of silver threaded through the land. They soared over hamlets and towns filled with healthy, laughing peoples. A pale city rose before him. Tournai, cleaner and more pure than ever Dimitri had known it. There was a sweetness in the air. A clean, fresh, natural fragrance that contrasted starkly with the stench of the city streets Dimitri knew.

“Pelenor will be restored to prosperity, peace, and health once more. No longer will the land and its peoples be exploited for all they have.”

Saradon’s anger brought thunderous clouds to the vision. The skies darkened, and suddenly, they were inside Tournai, at the very square where Dimitri had watched Toroth burn the false traitors. The pyres remained, but the figures upon them were very different. They blurred, shifting, but Dimitri saw snatches of faces he knew in them. The king, his father, his brothers, the court.

“I will see it done that Toroth and his kin of blood and spirit are punished for all they have done. The cruelty and greed of the court will be put to death. A fairer Pelenor will be born, and I will see that it does not fall into such depths again,” Saradon growled. “You will be well rewarded for your assistance, in whatever way you choose.”

Dimitri knew what Saradon meant. He could enjoy his fair share of riches if he chose, but he was more alike to Saradon than he had first realised. Righteous revenge was more important than gold to both of them.

“How do we make it so?” Dimitri asked, envisioning the green and prosperous land once more, daring to wonder what a fair court would look like.

“All I need is to break from the shackles of my self-imposed prison,” said Saradon, sighing. “I have power I never could have dreamed of, but it is wasted, trapped here.”

“Forgive me, Lord, but how did you come by it? All the tales tell of your struggles with magic and your use of arcane methods,” Dimitri dared to ask, phrasing it as delicately as he could.

Saradon’s mood flickered, but no anger rolled over Dimitri. “It is enough to know that is not true,” he said in a tone that brooked no further questions, but Dimitri was not satisfied. It did not answer what he had asked, and he knew Saradon had sidestepped his true question. Nonetheless, he nodded, even as his thoughts strayed once more. The portrait of Saradon, dark and evil. There, he was the darkness engulfing the light, yet the Saradon Dimitri found himself with seemed to hold himself as the opposite, a pinprick of light fighting against a growing dark. History is told by the victors, Dimitri reminded himself.

“Arcane powers may be misjudged,” Saradon said, as if he could read his most private thoughts. Dimitri hoped he could not. “Besides, magic is neither evil nor good. It is a tool. Magic is whatever and however it is chosen to be wielded. All magic can be used to do good, as ours shall.”

And evil, thought Dimitri, recalling the charred bodies of the false traitors. “What would you have me do?”

“Retrieve the stone without delay and bring it to me. Once I have the relic and the stone, I shall rise once more.”

47

HARPER

When she stopped that night in sight of the huge city crowned with twinkling lights, Harper’s confidence faded. Her sharp-edged senses spiked as she settled in a hollow in the shadow of an old, gnarled tree, exposed and vulnerable amongst the sweeping plain that undulated and rose to Tornai.

Harper settled upon the dry grass there, realising that without Aedon’s help or any tools, she probably could not light a fire. She also had no food. As if a reminder, her stomach rumbled in sullen rebellion. When had she last eaten a proper meal, one that made her feel as though her sides would burst? Not since a few days prior when Ragnar had cooked a small boar with tubers and wild herbs, making gravy from the juices… Harper’s stomach growled even louder at the thought. She groaned in annoyance that she had found nothing to sustain herself, for the moors seemed entirely barren after the bounty of the woods.

Had it been this cold of an evening in the forest, or was she only noticing it because she was out in the open where there was no shelter from the breeze? Harper hugged her arms around herself and rubbed her upper arms. A strange cry split the air, making her jump. Her head whipped toward the source of the sound. She remained motionless for several seconds, her entire body tense. She glanced around, but saw nothing against the darkening sky.

Harper adjusted herself, trying to stave off numbness and a sore back from where she leaned against the tree trunk, which dug into her body uncomfortably. The dagger nudged her side. With a slightly shaky hand, she drew it from the sheath and placed it at her side, then wrapped her cloak around herself.

For what good it does, at least I’m ready. With a sigh that sounded as loud as a shout to her fraught senses, she realised she really had no idea what it took to protect herself from whatever lay out there. Just as she had begun to feel confident with some of Brand’s training, it was over all too suddenly, and she was painfully aware how little she knew of it all.

There would be no chance of sleep. Haunted by the scurrying of nighttime creatures through the grass and across the earth around her, their cries, which were far too loud and close for comfort, only heightened her nerves. A hunter she may have been, but it had been many years since she had to sleep under the stars with no protection or company.

The creatures stayed away, for which she was thankful, but her frayed nerves would not allow her to rest. Long into the night, Harper kept her silent vigil, feeling as though she slowly turned into a cold, lonely, stone sentinel.

Harper must have eventually slept, for the next morning, she awoke with a start, cold, stiff, and covered in dew, just like the world around her. Blades of grass glittered, crowned with jewels of water. They adorned her hands with cold kisses as she pushed from the ground to stand, stretching her limbs and wishing she could banish her aches and fill her empty stomach. It gnawed at her relentlessly now. She sighed. There was no point in waiting. There was clearly going to be no breakfast that day.

Tournai was close, the road in the valley already full of morning trade and travel. She gawked at the gigantic city, just like how she had imagined Denholme that first time before seeing the grimy and pale reality of the citadel of her county. It rose from the plains, nestling into the steep cliffs of the mountains. A great palace, with hundreds of windows which caught the morning sunlight and crowned with crenelations, topped the walled city.

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