14. Harper
14
HARPER
T he days ate up the long distance, and the Dragontooth Mountains, which had been a low, hazy smudge in the distance, soon soared so far into the heights that their summits were lost. Harper craned her neck, trying to see them as they rode. Today, she rode with Aedon once more, as Ragnar and Erika each took their own horses and Brand soared above them.
Still, the lurching movement of the horses unsettled her, and she was glad she did not have to figure out how to ride one herself. Her arms encircled Aedon’s waist firmly as she rode behind him, clinging on for dear life and looking forward, as ever, to dismounting that night, for the sake of both her sore legs and bottom.
It was as close to time alone as the two of them had—for Brand put paid to any privacy between them, lurking nearby at all times, it seemed. Harper did not know whether to be irritated or touched to begin with, that the gruff warrior had taken her wellbeing so to heart. Her gratitude waned in the face of his oppressive presence everywhere she turned, until she longed to scream with the feeling of being stifled. Aedon’s silence on the matter irritated her too—he made no more moves towards her, to shed clarity on breaking things off, or to stake his claim upon her. She did not know whether she wanted him to or not—but anything would have been better than his limp avoidance. That only bred disdain in her, Harper found.
Disdain did not elicit any of the consuming inferno of feelings within her that she had only ever found in the dangerous presence of one certain spymaster whose violet gaze and domineering presence stalked through the edges of her dreams. And, when she made the mistake of falling asleep during the long rides, it was all too easy to reckon, in the disorientating moments between sleeping and waking, that it was his waist her arms encircled, and his unyielding muscled back she rested against. That shocked her awake quickly without fail as she suppressed the thoughts with brutal savagery.
They made for quicker progress than on foot, however, so she was ultimately glad for the horses. A sore bottom, chafed thighs, and private embarrassment were a worthy payment, or punishment, against miles of walking, Harper reasoned. Even with the lure of her magic to experiment with, it was hard to distract herself from the misery of the saddle as the days stretched on.
As the mountains neared, Ragnar, who led them, altered his course toward a giant rift in the peaks and a great valley hemmed in by sheer cliffs. The gorge penetrated deep into the range until it was lost in the twisting, turning valleys between the peaks. Harper wondered how long it would take them to get there, because the mountains were so large, they never seemed to draw any closer.
A rising wisp up ahead caught her attention. “What’s that smoke?” she called to Aedon as the wind rushed past her face, beating her hair against them both.
“A full stomach!” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “It’s the Maiden’s Beard. The final inn on the road before we cross into the dwarven realm of Valtivar.”
Harper snorted. “The Maiden’s Beard? What kind of name is that for an inn?” In her home county they had names like ‘The Anchor’, ‘The Crown’, or perhaps at most exciting, ‘Knight & Dragon’. Tam’s inn, where she had worked, was called ‘The Hound & Barrel’.
Aedon threw her a lop-sided smile. “Well, you’ve never met a dwarven woman have you?”
Harper stared at him. “They have beards?”
“Their beards are better than mine, let me tell you, lass,” sniffed Ragnar, looking indignant as he palmed down the length of his braided beard. “ Luxuriant tresses with not half the maintenance I have to keep on my wiry bush. Lucky buggers.”
Harper stifled a giggle. Her heart lifted at the prospect of food—a hearty, hot meal, with any luck—and their impending crossing into Valtivar. She hoped reaching the dwarven realm meant soon reaching shelter for a longer period. Already, she missed her shack more than she thought would be possible. Her pallet back in Caledan seemed like a kingly bed compared to the cold, packed earth and open elements. Even though Aedon had now taught her how to spell against the cold and shroud herself with a blanket of warm air, she could not conjure a soft place to lay, no matter how much she wished it.
It grew dark by the time they reached the inn, which sheltered against a bluff. Harper realised that, to her surprise, the inn was a single storey dwelling of timber that seemed embedded within the very hill itself. The chimney rose through the grass above, and the warm glow of firelight danced through the small, diamond-paned windows. They picketed the three horses in the lean-to with the other patrons’ mounts, where fresh hay was stacked against the most sheltered wall. The horses seemed to be as glad as they to be out of the elements, for they strained at their tethers at once to graze.
Heat blasted Harper as she stepped across the threshold of the inn and onto a rush-lined, stone-flagged floor. The heat tingled through her as she removed her cloak and flexed her fingers to ease the stiffness and chill within them. For a lone inn situated in the middle of nowhere, it was busier than she had anticipated. After the silence of the outdoors, apart from the thundering drone of horses’ hooves as a constant companion, the noise was unexpected. Now, conversations assailed her from all sides, in all manner of strange tongues. Dwarves, men, and elves filled the inn, but it was a far cry from Tam’s inn back in Caledan.
Here, she saw merchants, warriors, and rangers, not drunks and layabouts. Here, the air did not smell of stale sweat, pipe smoke, and worse, but musky woodsmoke, pine, and rich food. Here, the patrons seemed uninterested in the serving girls—at least before their sustenance—being more than content to flick them a coin for their service before tucking into steaming plates. Despite her appreciation of this place, smelling the familiar scent of ale upon the air gave her a pang of almost homesickness when she thought of Betta. You can’t return , she reminded herself. Betta will be fine . She hoped the weathered old battle-axe would manage to survive the winter without her help.
Wooden pillars supported the low ceiling elaborately carved with nature scenes. Some were carved from giant, living root systems that descended from the trees growing above the tavern, continuing down into the earth below. Harper brushed her fingers across the smooth wood as they passed, winding through the stools and tables to the bar at the head of the room.
Flames crackled from the twin fires at either side of the surprisingly large space. One to warm the patrons, the other to cook bubbling pots of stew and a boar upon a spit. Harper’s mouth started watering as the smell of meat and woodsmoke twined its way into her nose alluringly.
“Can we have some of that?” she whispered to Ragnar, tugging on his sleeve.
“I should think so,” he answered, sounding offended at the prospect of not doing so.
“What can I get for yer?” the barkeep asked, flicking a practised gaze over them. Harper noticed every snag of his eyes upon their various weapons.
“Ales and your meat stew all ‘round, please,” Aedon said, counting coins from a purse hidden within his cloak. Harper eyed the money. She had still not figured out what Pelenor currency entailed.
The barkeep nodded and swept the coins from the countertop in one swipe. “Wait for yer drinks. Maid’ll bring yer food.” He poured the fizzing, honey-coloured liquid from a cask into wooden tankards, sliding the full vessels across a bar worn smooth with age.
Once each had their drinks, they made their way to a corner near the fire where they begged enough spare stools from neighbouring tables to form their own circle around a barrel. Brand stooped, his wings crumpling against the ceiling, and he huffed a sigh of relief as he perched upon the stool, which was comically tiny under his bulk, able to ruffle his feathers once more.
“Cheers to another mission well done,” Aedon said, raising his tankard.
The group followed suit—Harper scrambling to copy them—before supping deeply from the ale within. Harper groaned on the first mouthful. It was far sweeter than Tam’s sour brews. She gulped another mouthful eagerly.
“Steady on, Harper, or you’ll be drunk before we eat,” Aedon said, laughing. She grinned at him, emboldened, but he only laughed harder.
Their ales were almost gone by the time their dinner arrived—chunks of boar meat and vegetables in a bowl of steaming stew, and a hunk of bread. The companions fell into silence, each tearing through their food as quickly as they could chew. Harper savoured the rich, honeyed bread—only a day old and hardly stale—dipped into the stew. Juicy. Tender. Rich. Hot grease ran down her chin as she tore from a particularly large chunk of meat. It dripped into the stew below. She closed her eyes in bliss.
When Harper finished, she threw her meagre scraps—a chunk of bone with a shred of meat remaining—to the hounds sprawling before the hearth. They fought over it, cracking the bones and gobbling up the leftover marrow within. The companions collectively slumped back in their chairs with satisfied groans, nursing refilled tankards, as the swell of conversation flowed around them.
“Are we safe here?” she dared to ask, keeping her voice low. Though Brand and Erika constantly scoured their surroundings for the first sign of any threat, Harper had never seen the four of them so relaxed.
“As safe as we can be,” Brand murmured in reply, continuing to examine the closest patrons. “The Kingsguard turn a blind eye to these places, so they’re frequented by the likes of us—and worse—as well as honest traders. They’re good places for us to come. We hear a lot more out here than we do in the cities, where we’re hounded by the red cloaks.”
Harper nodded and glanced around. Now she could see their fellow patrons up close. Their cloaks were on the tattered end of their lives, and under each bristled a hint of weapons—the bottom of a scabbard, the haft of an axe. Long, tangled hair was restrained in braids and ties, pulled back from faces that bore shadows and scars.
“I can’t understand half of them,” she said, annoyed. Their voices were hidden amongst their own cacophony, and it seemed half of them did not speak the Common Tongue.
“If you spoke Pelenori, you would understand most of it. It matters not. We can listen and hear what you cannot, but I reckon you will still find many interesting titbits. Plenty of folk speak in the Common Tongue. Keep your ears open.”
Harper did as Brand suggested, listening to snippets of conversations—when she could understand them—whilst nursing her second tankard and trying to still her wandering mind, freed by the drink. All spoke of looming war, the closure of trade routes south through the mountains to the dwarves and beyond, and the threat of a dark force, but Harper could understand no more of their words.
When conversation turned to Tournai, an icy fear shuddered through her, and she stiffened. It would not do to dwell on Tournai, what had happened there—or a certain spymaster. But they did not speak of Aedon, or her, or the missing Dragonhearts, or even Dimitrius. The latest preoccupation was the weakening of the very king himself. Now, they only dared speak in murmurs, and Harper had to strain her ears to hear them. From Aedon’s unflinching stare into the fire and Brand’s set mouth and hard gaze into his tankard, she knew they also eavesdropped.
“The king and Tournai have been cursed? It is too fanciful to believe,” Erika muttered, full of her usual suspicion.
“Yet these are the most honest mouths in all of Pelenor, if only you can discern through the swill to find the truth,” Aedon replied.
“If their words be true, then it is troubling for my kin,” Ragnar said with a frown of worry.
“The goblins are always causing a fuss,” Aedon dismissed. “I’m sure your kin have all in hand, as they usually do. You know how the goblin-kin get rowdy time and again, before your jarls put them in their place.”
“Jarls?” Harper whispered.
“Dwarven lords,” Brand whispered back.
“Perhaps you’re right,” Ragnar said, though he seemed unconvinced.
“I’m always right.” Aedon winked at the dwarf.
“What concerns me more is the news from Tournai. What would be huge enough that the king be turned from seeking us for the theft of his Dragonhearts?” Erika asked with a scowl.
Aedon tempered. “I agree. Those are dark tidings, if they be true. What did you hear, Brand? You were closer than I.”
“A curse lays upon Tournai. Those of magical blood in the court waste away daily, their powers spent and gone. The queen is gravely ill, and they say King Toroth’s power wanes.”
Something hollowed within Harper at those words, and the thought of Dimitri there—he had been kind to her. He had ensured she had escaped. His actions muddied the hate she was supposed to feel for him and she did not know at all what to do with that tangle. Instead, she latched onto thoughts of Emyria. Emyria did not deserve to grow sick.
“He can barely control the Kingsguard, and rumours spread like wildfire. No one knows what passes, and in that unknown lay doubt, fear, and unrest. It is said that the common people will mass against him before too long.”
The companions shared long glances. What could they say to it? Tournai was too far away for them to be concerned with.
“Well,” Aedon said lightly. “At least that might turn them from our trail for a while.”
“We can only hope,” muttered Brand.
The merry atmosphere and raucous laughter of the inn faded into the background as they worried on this new information, until Aedon slapped the table and stood. “Come. We need to be far from here by dawn. Who knows who we may encounter upon the road if we dally too long. We stay our original course and head for Keldheim.”
“We’ll have to be extra careful. The goblins are sly, sneaky creatures.” Ragnar’s face contorted in an uncharacteristically hateful scowl. The flickering firelight threw deep shadows across the crevices of his face, making him appear even more angry. “We don’t want to encounter them if they are on the rise once more.”
“Duly noted. I dare say we’re not planning to. What’s the safest road in?” Aedon asked.
“As we planned. Take the cleft and pass Himmelheim on the dwarven road to Keldheim. The main ways will be safe and clear.”
“Then it is done. Come.”
They rose, and others glanced at them as they passed. Harper returned their interest with her own, taking in every detail of them. They were quick to drop their gazes against her scrutiny. They walked out into the night—bitter after the cosy warmth of the inn—wrapping their cloaks around them in a futile attempt to stave off the wind, then saddling the horses with rapidly numbing fingers. Harper tried to summon magic to keep her warm, but the best she could manage was to keep the worst of the chill from her toes.
“We travel through the night,” Brand said grimly.
They nodded.
“We’ll make the pass by dawn and rest then,” Aedon agreed.
Harper nodded dully. With a full belly and lulled by the warmth of the fire, she had no inclination to ride through the cold dark at all. Yet it seemed they now fled a new enemy, one that skulked in the dark of night.
She drew close to Aedon, suddenly relieved to be sharing a horse—it meant his protection, too, in this strange new land. Brand took to the skies, battering them all with a gust of air as he took flight to circle above them, watchful, as ever, for the first sign of trouble.