Page 4 of Heart of Shadows

Dimitri swallowed his retorts. The king ought to have been glad Dimitri brought him news of goblin uprisings that threatened to cripple trade across the borders, and bedded the king’s daughter so he didn’t have to put up with her petulant tempers. Seeing guards converge upon him, Dimitri gave a low bow to the king—who ignored it entirely—shoved his hands into his pockets, and strolled out nonchalantly before they could lay a hand upon him. He would not suffer the reputational harm of that indignity. His blood boiled, wrath seething hot and angry underneath his skin with every footstep.

His father’s gaze followed him out, but Damir made no move to support Dimitri. Dimitri resented his father more than the rest of them combined, for no matter what, Dimitri’s efforts would never be enough. Dimitri had long ago given up trying to seek his approval. His father’s successes were entirely accidental, and certainly not wished for—but Damir had wasted no time trading on Dimitri’s usefulness to the crown. It had only further cemented Dimitri’s opinion of his father—and his worth.

Dimitri had long wished for his father’s demise. In Dimitri’s eyes, Damir deserved nothing less for punishing Dimitri for his existence all these years when it was Damir’s own indiscretion that had begotten him. At least Dimitrius took precautions to never be so careless, especially in Rosella’s servitude. His nightly preventative tonic came second in importance only to guarding his life. Dimitri had no children of his own, and he would keep it that way. The illegitimate child of an illegitimate child would have no hope for a good life in a court where purity of blood was prized. He might have been dastardly, but Dimitri would not force his own damned circumstances on another. Not of his own choice.

The king and his daughter were another matter. Rosella was a consenting female of age. Toroth had done nothing but grumble about her for years, and he made no secret of it. In particular, her delight in spending his fortune, no matter that she was the sweetest and least conniving of all his children—which was saying something. She was only a jewel in so far as extending his dominion with her marriage, but Toroth had never deemed a suitor and their assets worthy of taking that prize—and Dimitrius was most certainly not the one to change his mind of that. Dimitri returned to her chambers, bitter as it always tasted and unclean as it made him feel. He was not sure whether it was out of loathing for himself, or the king.

That night, Dimitri watched her from the shadows, far from the rumpled silken sheets they had left in her chambers. Rosella, wearing a gown of starlight and diamonds, twirled on the arm of an elven princeling. He tried to suppress a pang of jealousy, unsuccessfully. He was not envious of her shared attention—far from it, it was a relief-filled respite—but oh, to be free of the maligned attention that dogged his every step. He was barely welcome in the first place. He stood far outside the globe of light, brilliance, and laughter that graced the finest ballroom in the city of Tournai, instead favouring the cold darkness of the gardens that were wet after the storm’s passing.

A figure melted out of the shadows beside him.

“Yes, Rook?” Dimitri’s informants all went by coded names. It was safer that way.

Light glinted as coins changed hands. Rook tucked the money away before speaking. “Dissent in the north. Those whom we spoke of. Avoiding duties at the ports by landing their most choice goods elsewhere. The ships turn up to the docks half empty.”

“The king thanks you,” Dimitri said, as he always did. Rook vanished into the night without another word.

Dimitri chewed on the knowledge. Did the king deserve it? Not at all. Was it worth hiding? Even less so. He sighed and turned his eyes to the heavens for a fleeting second. No answers would come from the cold stars above him, hidden by their blanket of dark clouds. He was duty-bound to report it, whether he liked it or not. At least in some form. Dimitri picked through which information to feed onward. He always kept some choice morsels for himself, or for ears other than the king’s.

He’d give those traitors a chance to save themselves—and owe him—before he turned them in, he decided with a small smile. Some of those who had looked down their noses at him earlier that day would tomorrow be begging him to keep their secrets, lest they incur the wrath of the king and see their heads roll or their bodies burn in dragonfire for treason. This small hold of power was the only form of insurance he had found to soothe the edge off the raw fear that lurked at the fringes of his mind, ever present, in the court. The more he held of others’ secrets, the less his own could bite him. The bastard son of an elven lord had to make his own fortune one way or another.

4

AEDON

The gigantic trees of the living forest rustled and contorted, but there was no wind to move them. It was as if the very trees themselves were angry. Aedon knew it to be true. The forest was furious.

He dashed across the rope bridge walkways that soared above the forest floor, clinging on for dear life. The living trees, the dhiran, buckled their limbs around him, sending the walkways swinging like ribbons in the wind. Aedon was lucky he had always been a nimble elf. Even so, he struggled to keep his footing. He ducked and wove as branches tore at him with razor sharp leaves. Every splintered arm of wood stabbed at him like a jagged blade, leaving his skin peppered with nicks and grazes.

Still, it was better than descending to the forest floor. If he did, the writhing roots would rip themselves free from the earth and strangle him before they wrenched him limb from limb. Tir-na-Alathea was a special place, but a cursed one. No one left if the forest did not wish it. Luckily, Aedon had a better plan—he hoped. He chanced a glance over his shoulder and redoubled his efforts. The two elves pursuing him had murder in their eyes. He could not blame them, he supposed. The elves of Tir-na-Alathea were not the forgiving type, even though he had asked nicely. It wasn’t his fault they had refused the trade. They’d left him no choice but to take it. This was all on them—but their howls of rage told him they felt otherwise.

One hand returned to his breast, checking and rechecking that the lump was still there. That it nestled safely within the protection of his leather jerkin. He could not afford for that to tumble to the forest floor and be forever lost. He strained for breath, every muscle screaming in pain as he pushed himself harder. He was a fast elf, but this was their home. Escape was far from guaranteed. El’hari and Ta’hiir would pursue him to the death on their Queen’s orders, if that was what it took.

As though the forest itself had eyes, faces stared from within the trees, with agony carved in the flowing whorls of their rippling bark. That gave him renewed cause to flee. If he were caught, that or worse would be his fate, for those were not the trees, but the eternal prisoners of the living forest. Those who had wronged it never saw the light of day again, thanks to the magic of the wood. It was a magic so strong, Aedon had to blink back the headache that threatened to engulf him. Every pulse of anger from the forest had the very fabric of the magic of this place trying to crush him until even the air seemed to squeeze him from all sides.

There was a break in the swirling leaves ahead. Beyond it, a chink of sky and a flash of tumbling water—the falls. His escape. His eyes flicked skyward as a shadow engulfed him. Giant, eagle-like wings soared over the canopy. They were utterly silent like a hunter at night. Relief overwhelmed Aedon. He had never been so relieved to see an Aerian, particularly this legendary winged warrior, in his life. Aedon swallowed, hoping his plan would work, but there was no time for doubt. The edge of the trees approached. It was now or never.

The forest continued for many miles at the bottom of the cliff. The rumble of the water was indistinguishable from the roar of blood pounding through his ears. At the trees’ edge, the walkway ended in a balcony open to the skies. Without slowing, Aedon vaulted the slim rail and hurled himself into the abyss. His heart rose into his mouth as he fell with a soundless scream, the wind tearing at him just like the trees had done seconds before. He forced his watering eyes open. The trees below raced up to meet him. The cliff face was close—too close. Just one snag of his body on the stone and he would meet an even more grisly fate, smashing into the cliff and then tumbling to his death. His heart jerked in a frenzy of panic.

Suddenly, he was tackled from the sky. The impact knocked all the breath from his body. Stars burst in his eyes as Aedon gasped for air. Two bare, muscled arms, riddled with scars, locked around his chest in a protective cage. Aedon clutched onto the familiar, worn leather bracers, but neither relief nor safety was his yet. They still plummeted. His savior slowed their descent, his giant wings outstretched as they glided over the forest, then he pumped them powerfully, sending them up—to Aedon’s relief.

“Well met, elf.”

“Brand,” Aedon managed to croak out. His ribs felt shattered. With each wingbeat, they rose into the sky. Aedon did not struggle in Brand’s grasp. The Aerian’s grip was a vice around him, crushing Aedon to his solid, leather chestplate. It dug painfully into his back, yet Aedon relished the metal studs and hard, ridged edges cutting into his flesh. They were safety. He breathed in a shaky breath to steady himself, inhaling the scent of leather and sweat. Never had he been so grateful for that stench.

“I was scared for a moment you weren’t going to catch me,” Aedon spluttered with his first draw of breath. He tried to sound nonchalant, but he was unable to keep the tremor from his voice. The pounding of his heart continued to deafen him. He looked up. Brand’s expression was impassive, his attention on the horizon.

“I nearly didn’t,” Brand growled in his gravel voice. “The peace and quiet I’d have without you was tempting, but Erika would kill me if I dropped what you carry. I thought I’d better not.”

Aedon ceased moving. The forest was far below them now. His head swam, nausea threatening to overwhelm him as his stomach roiled. Elves were not meant to fly. Not without a dragon. He turned his head as far as he could as Brand banked higher. Now he could see them. The elves of Tir-na-Alathea. They crowded the balcony he had jumped from. From such a distance, they were too small for him to see their features in detail, but their raised fists were unmistakable.

It’ll be about three hundred years before I can set foot there again, Aedon thought with a moment of ruefulness. It was a shame. The Tir-na-Alathea elves were some of the most talented spellmakers in all of the elven kingdoms. Their wares and services were definitely closed to him now.

“You do have it, right?” Brand asked. He squeezed a little. A warning not to joke.

Aedon’s hand wormed around Brand’s iron grip, slipping under the neckline of his top. The tips of his fingers brushed against the cold, hard, crystal vial digging into his chest. It was there. Safely stoppered. A grin of triumph broke over his face. “Oh, I got it all right! Right from under their noses! They said it could not be done. Stealing from the elves of Tir-na-Alathea, escaping the living forest, all without paying the price,” he crowed. “The legendary Thief of Pelenor strikes again!”

Brand’s arms loosened. “There’s that annoying noise I was so keen to get rid of,” he threatened.

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