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Yet, Harper was clearly shaken by the experience, and all thoughts of hunting abandoned, for she had returned to their camp and sunk to her knees underneath a tree, rubbing her arms as though she could rid herself of what had just happened. Her glazed expression told him that it was no planned meeting—but Aedon did not believe of any goodwill where the dark spymaster of Pelenor’s cruel king was involved. He did not simply appear in the middle of nowhere without reason. And it made unease simmer underneath Aedon’s skin. Aedon tugged his collar away from his neck, the fabric suddenly constricting, as he stood with Brand and Erika who argued furiously under their breaths, whilst Ragnar knelt beside Harper with his hand upon her back. He bent low towards her—to check she was unharmed, it seemed.
Aedon did not know what to make of any of this. Only that they were not safe. He glanced up—the sun had gone and twilight deepened the shadows yawning between the trees. It was against Aedon’s instinct to remain in their present location for that night, but it was the most defensible position they had against Dimitrius or the Tir-na-Alathean elves who were still out there somewhere. No matter the consequences, he would not have them wandering blind through the dark woods, to be picked off one by one.
Why? The question rang without answer to cease it. Dimitrius owed them less than nothing. Indeed, it would serve his own gain and pleasure to turn them all in. How had he found them—and why had he spared them? Did he know Harper? Worse still—was she somehow in league with Dimitrius? It made no sense, no matter how many times Aedon asked himself. He watched Harper like a hawk, determined to divine her. He would catch her tell, if she had one. He would find out, one way or another, if she knew of Saradon, the mark she bore on her charm, the court of Pelenor—or that son of the House of Ellarian. Against every fibre of Aedon’s better judgment, which called him to take the Dragonheart, leave their new companion, and flee far into the night, they made camp as the sun set.
28
HARPER
Harper gathered kindling from around the dell, troubled by her companions’ unexplained coldness toward her, and the encounter with the male who had named himself Dimitrius—and thrown her into yet more turmoil.
Dimitrius Vaeri Mortris of House Ellarian.
His name was a song on her tongue, and those violet eyes burned through her. She shook off the shiver they brought and quickly glanced around. It felt like he still watched her, but he had vanished, and Aedon had thrown up every ward he knew around their camp, his easy smile lost in an uncharacteristically thunderous mood that she instinctively shied away from. Nestled in the crook of a gushing stream and surrounded by trees, they were safe from whatever hunted them, Aedon assured her.
But perhaps not from him. What did Dimitrius want with her? To have appeared precisely there and then… Harper had begun to believe less and less in coincidences. He found her somehow—and she could not help but wonder if it was connected to the Dragonheart. She was not entirely convinced he would not do it again, and much as she hated herself for it, a small sliver of her wanted to see him.
She had never met anyone who had elicited such a storm of emotion within her, one that disturbed the depths of her so deeply that her thoughts were mud churning in writhing waters, turning sense into madness. For, as much as those violet eyes of his promised punishment and fear, there was a spark within them that drew her closer in fascination, like a moth damned to a flame.
The woods closed in around her, so Harper crashed through the brush more noisily than she ought to on her return to camp, on edge from the shadows that chased her. The growing darkness was a threat looming over her shoulder—one that sent a nip to her step and an uncomfortable crawl down the base of her spine. Was he out there even now, watching her?
She joined Ragnar at the fire, whilst Erika butchered the couple of rabbits they had found that day—luckily, it transpired, for Harper’s hunt had yielded nothing but questions and danger. Soon, the dark meat bubbled away in a pot with some root vegetables that were unfamiliar to her—purple carrots and potato-like tubers the size of her head with the bizarre appearance of ginger.
As they sat to eat, Harper bit into the rich, lean meat appreciatively, savouring the herb-laden gravy and listening to Aedon’s latest tale of grandeur and adventure, for he had already wolfed his meal, as seemed to be his habit. Harper lowered her gaze back to her bowl when she noticed the rest of the group’s attention on her.
Even Aedon stared intently as he spoke, now to her. “You told us a story, so it’s my turn tonight. Let me tell you a tale from Pelenor of nightmares and monsters…” Aedon’s voice dropped into a lower cadence as he hunched closer to the fire. “Let me tell you the tale of Saradon.”
The fire threw flickering shadows across his face, morphing the handsome visage into a caricature of light and shadow that delved under his hood. His eyes were faint glimmers in the darkness. Harper instinctively leaned closer. The fire was warm on her front, but cold shadows trailed across her back. They left lingering shivers rippling across Harper’s skin as the hair on the back of her neck rose with anticipation. She could not help but be drawn in by his promise of a dark tale.
“Saradon was one of the king’s many cousins, a half-elf born to the coupling of an elven mother and a human father, a princeling of the Realm of Pelenor, who would make it even more strong and prosperous in the coming years. Saradon was born amidst much glory and celebration, but alas, something was wrong. Saradon was not as he ought to have been.”
Aedon paused and met each of their gazes in turn. The others, who seemed to recognise the tale, sat back, their interest fading. Brand cleaned his weapon, Erika returned to patching up her cloak, and Ragnar picked morsels of meat from his teeth, staring into the flames. Harper leaned forward, breathless with anticipation.
“Saradon was half-elf by blood, yet he possessed no magic.” Again, Harper wondered why this was so critical for Pelenor, unable to shake the fact that magic could not really be that important if entire nations of mortals in Caledan and beyond survived without it.
“No magic,” Aedon repeated, shaking his head. “Of course, it was the greatest shame of the kingdom when word spread that the blood of the royal line was tainted thusly. What could have caused it? Was the babe cursed? Was the very blood of the line, perhaps the king himself, cursed? Rumours grew, spreading like wildfire and changing just as rapidly, until all the Kingdom of Pelenor, and even farther afield, had heard of the cursed child filled with anti-magic.
“Of course, Saradon was just a boy. He was not evil. He was smart and gifted, for all his mortal limitations. He heard the tales, though his mother tried to protect him from them. She loved her boy more than all the world and did not want him to be hurt. Healers were sent for. The finest mages in all the kingdom were called. The greatest elven minds were summoned. Yet no cure could they find, for he suffered no affliction. Random chance, they called it. Ill fortune. He was both a miracle and a mistake.
“His mother loved him all the same, desperate to protect her child from the hurt and sorrow she knew would find him as time marched on. His father was not so kind, giving all his attention to Saradon’s siblings, who were as half-elves ought to be—brimming with power. Saradon was hidden away, the shame of his family and the royal bloodline. Saradon knew himself to be different, marked, and not in a way that was blessed. His heart saddened, then hardened, and a darkness was born within him. It was all of the court’s fault, from that day to this.”
The fire crackled and spat vigorously, making Harper jump backwards. Brand smirked, but Aedon’s atmospheric guise did not fall into the shadows of his cloak. Across the fire, Ragnar’s impassive face illuminated as he puffed on his pipe, the glowing embers within casting a ruddy hue across him with each breath that flared them into life. The darkness swelled oppressively around them as the last light over the horizon dimmed to nothing.
“As Saradon grew, he saw what an imbalance of power there was in Pelenor. As a half-elven princeling, nephew to the king, he should have been given every right and privilege of his rank, yet he was cut out from both for his lack of magic. He grew bitter—and who could blame him? Slowly, he retreated further into the shadows. Despite his rank, he would never hold power. Despite his blood, he would never inherit. Such was the curse of a mortal life. Saradon grew so angry, so disillusioned, that he sought to make a change. Perhaps his intentions began nobly, or perhaps they were always selfish. Perhaps there were lessons to be learned. That those of mortal blood could be useful in their own way. Perhaps mortality without magic was not a curse after all. Yet all his life, Saradon had been told it was, so what else was he to think? He despised them all for it,” Aedon continued darkly.
Harper could not tell to whom the anger in his voice was directed—at Saradon or those who had wronged him.
“In his anger and hate, he decided he would cast them all down, save for his mother, whose love had never erred. He would destroy his father, his uncle the king, and all those who thought he was a blight upon the kingdom. He would take down the elves, magic itself, and rule in his own right, to prove that those without magic could also wield power.
“Perhaps Saradon’s cause was noble at first, lifting up those with no voice of their own. At the time, mortals had little say in the running of the kingdom. However, his methods were entirely selfish. Some say the Dragonhearts are what helped him. He stole them and bound them to his will with the darkest of magics, for he was supposed to have none. With the same evil magics, he sapped the king of his strength, then the court, the city, and eventually all those who opposed him, even sending the dragons of the Winged Kingsguard into a slumber from which they could not awaken, all the while absorbing their power. Neither before nor since has Pelenor seen such a dark curse. None could stand in his way. The mighty Kingsguard was rendered useless in a heartbeat. Then he struck.”
Harper was frozen, barely breathing—waiting for the hammer to fall. Aedon’s eyes fixed upon her, ensnaring her in his gaze as the fire died. She jumped at the crash and shower of sparks as Ragnar tossed another log onto the flames, and her heart raced into a frenzied pitter-patter. A flicker of a smile crossed Aedon’s face at her involuntary movement. He was a born storyteller, and she could tell he fed from the energy of his audience by the way he leaned closer, his eyes only for her, making sure she gave him all of her attention.
“Saradon had spent many a year sympathising with those who shared his views in Pelenor. To be mortal, to have no magic, to be anything other than an elf was not a cursed thing. To be forced to live as a second-class citizen was a crime in and of itself, one that wronged them all. In his eyes, and those who followed him, it was something that needed to be righted—and punished. His armies, consisting of humans and other creatures, flooded the kingdom. The king’s army, without its magic, was at a severe disadvantage. It seemed all would be lost… until Saradon’s plan backfired. The dragons awoke from their cursed slumber and returned to the fight. It was enough to tip the scales.”
“What then?” Harper’s voice was barely louder than a breath.
“The king’s armies swept through Pelenor, annihilating Saradon’s forces without mercy. Those who had followed Saradon, as well as their families, were killed or imprisoned. Saradon’s entire family was executed, even his dear mother—perhaps especially his dear mother—for fear they would support him. That was the last straw for him. It is said his mother’s death drove him to the brink of insanity and beyond. That it broke some part of him, the only decent part of him that remained.
