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Damir had no answer for that, speechless with indignance.
“Well, you clearly haven’t come for the pleasure of my excellent company, so what do you want?” Dimitri turned away from Damir, ignoring the pointed glare he received in answer, and pretended to admire an ornate antique. His father could not bear to be ignored. Dimitri delighted in tormenting that whenever he could. It was one of the few small victories he could claim in life.
“No indeed. You need to tread more carefully. I won’t have you angering the king.” Damir folded his arms across his chest. He was as cold as usual, but Dimitri was well-schooled in being on the receiving end of such indifference. After all, he had learned from a master, not that he would ever admit it.
“As if you have a say in anything I do, dear father.” Dimitri flicked an imaginary piece of dust off his immaculate, slate cuffs and strolled down the gallery, stepping from light into shadow and back again as he passed each tall window.
“I’m your father and I won’t have you shame our house any more than you already do.” His father strode after him, dogging his footsteps.
Dimitri scoffed. “Frankly, the shame is all yours. Aren’t I nothing more than that to you? I didn’t choose to be born, and yet you have your current fortune to thank me for. I’ve worked hard and succeeded, despite every limitation you enforced upon me.” He stopped and glared at his father. “You’re welcome,” he added pointedly.
Damir pursed his lips. No thanks came—as ever. Old dragons didn’t change their scales. Dimitri’s lip curled as he turned away again.
“Do you hear me?” his father insisted. “I shan’t have you drag our name through the mud. I don’t want the king’s wrath upon me for your misdemeanours.”
“Oh, don’t worry!” Dimitri whirled on his father, his words as scathing as he could possibly make them. “I shan’t endanger your delicate little head, nor that of your latest harlot.”
“She is my wife!”
“Your latest wife.”
“You will show her more respect. I command it! She is the lady of your house, not one of the common slatterns you associate with.”
Dimitri spluttered with laughter, unable to contain it. “You deign to lecture me? I have never fathered a bastard. Please tell me the irony is not lost upon you.” His amusement faded to darkness. “And before you so much as say another word, may I warn you that by association, it would very much appear that you call Her Royal Highness a slattern. I am sure you are very much mistaken and do not need to inform the king you hold such views on his most precious daughter.”
Damir paled and shrank away.
Dimitri scoffed in disgust. Pathetic coward. “I didn’t think so. Are we done?”
Damir looked very much as if he wanted to be, but he shook his head. Dimitri raised an eyebrow in silent invitation for him to continue, pursing his lips. Damir gestured for him to follow and set off to the far end of the gallery, which was shrouded in darkness from the shuttered windows that excluded the day’s light.
“The goblin massing,” Damir muttered. To anyone else, they appeared to be a father and son merely appraising priceless works of art. “I want more news from the borders, more news of the troubles.”
Dimitri heard the reluctance in Damir’s voice. It killed his father to have to ask him for anything. “The king forbade we take any further part.”
Damir scoffed. “I know that will not stop you or your sources. Forewarned is forearmed. The dwarves are not likely to ask for help—not from Toroth—and if the uprising is more severe than we are led to believe, which I fear it is, we may yet have to act. I hope I worry for naught, yet…” Damir trailed off.
Dimitri nodded. He understood his father’s motivations. The family lands of Eyre lay close to the border. Too close for comfort to the troubles—and too far away from Tournai to receive the king’s aid. Should no one stand in the way, they would be the first lands to fall.
“I’ll not promise anything.” And with that, Dimitri strode into the shadows, abandoning his father to the solitude of the gallery without waiting for a response.
7
AEDON
Aedon stretched his toes toward the licks of fire that chased away the dark and threw dancing light on the cave walls. The warmth banished the creeping cold from his feet, for which he was grateful. His sodden boots lay with all the others to one side, gently steaming as the water evaporated. Erika and Ragnar sat around the fire lost in reverie, and for once, Aedon did not break it. Bone-deep weariness settled in him. It had been a long while since they had enjoyed true, safe rest, and he longed for it. They looked up as Brand strode back in, his wings tucked in tightly against the small passageway of the cave.
“All clear,” he said, his gaze raking across them all. The night surrounded him in stark shadows, and only his eyes glinted until he entered the small sphere of light beside them.
“Safe?” Ragnar questioned with a nervous glance toward the entrance.
Brand chuckled darkly as he squatted near the fire. “I wouldn’t go that far. The elves of Tir-na-Alathea are a murderous bunch when they want to be, and we’re too close for comfort. This is the most defensible position we have, but we cannot stay for more than one night. I’ve scouted the area. There are no traces of us—or them. We should still sleep with one eye open and some extra protection.” He glared pointedly at Aedon, who inclined his head.
“The wards are already up. Don’t worry.”
“I still don’t trust the trees.” Brand scowled toward the entrance, as if the trees were creeping in.
Aedon clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry yourself, Brand. The trees here are harmless. They’re not the same as the Tir-na-Alathea dhiran.”
