28. Dimitri
28
DIMITRI
A black cloud hung permanently over Tournai, but it was not the storms of approaching winter. The city had become a dark and unforgiving place. The king’s curfew was more easily kept now, for Kingsguard swamped the city, pushing their capabilities to the boundaries, and the people had not the strength to rebel against the king any longer. Anarchy had ruled the streets, but now it was a tired, cautious wait.
Food, water, and supplies dwindled as trade stuttered throughout the city, partly borne by rioting and looting, partly borne by a cessation of trade coming into Tournai. Only so many carts could enter or leave between curfews, and with the threat of the goblin scourge blighting the passes, trade had completely stopped from Valtivar and across the mountains from the east, decimating provisions.
The court was darker still. Toroth clung to his throne with mind and body, even as he wasted away from Saradon’s Curse, which sapped his magic and strength. The queen hung on by a thread, and what nobles were left had grown increasingly suspicious and fearful for their own safety, both from Toroth’s increasingly insane hands and from the affliction. It felt like all were only a breath away from death, either by dragonfire or disease.
The king had not purged the city again. Dimitri and Raedon had seen to it, though the king was unaware of their tenuous alliance. Dimitri was certain it was only that which held utter disarray at bay. The guild meets grew more rowdy and discontent each time, and it seemed it only needed the common people to have a chance to rise. Dimitri and Raedon both knew it. Dimitri imagined that was why Raedon doubled the Kingsguard patrols through the city, even though he could ill afford the increase in wages or rations.
Dimitri had not spoken to Raedon again about his obvious desire to rule, but he knew it drove the elf, who even now watched the king with a hidden gleam in his eyes. Raedon was a predator waiting to pounce—far too proud to serve a broken king and watch his hard work waste away, and now wondering on an unforeseen opportunity coming his way.
Indeed, the king had slowly become prey. Even the summer enchantments over the gardens, fed by his magic, had started to fail. The rose garden withered and died. The flowers had vanished. The leaves had fallen, covering the lawns in a blaze of fire—which now rotted into brown mulch. The gardens had become almost as lifeless and dreary as the court.
“The time to act is now, General,” Dimitri said as he and Raedon stood upon the tallest tower in Tournai—the very same one from which he had allowed Brand and Harper to escape. Gusts of wind buffeted them as Raedon’s dragon soared overhead, somersaulting through the steel-grey sky. It felt so different to when he had last stood there, under much calmer skies, urging her to leave. The thought of her was too uncomfortable. He focused on the slicing feeling of that unforgiving wind, and what he had to say to the general. No one would hear them, their words lost in the wind and shrouded by wards, whilst the court wasted away below them.
Still, Raedon stirred but did not speak.
Dimitri cast him a sidelong glance. “It matters not who rules in the end, General. What matters now is that the people can trust a strong leadership.”
“Yet it will be seen as usurpation.”
“Not if done the right way in order to stabilise the realm whilst the king sickens and wastes.”
Raedon frowned. “What is the right way?”
Dimitri turned back to the battlement, looking over the city sprawling below them. “The right way is to notify the court, the city, and perhaps even the realm of what has transpired. The court is sick. All know it. Such gossip spreads like wildfire. It is the general’s place to uphold order and peace. You are merely doing your sworn duty.”
“I will not sit the throne.”
Dimitri could not decide if Raedon sounded eager to do so, for the general guarded his tone.
“Of course not. Whilst the king and his kin live, the throne is not yours to sit. You will install the queen’s throne below the king’s. That way, you will sit by the seat of power, not in it. All will know what that gesture means.”
It was Raedon’s turn to give Dimitri a sidelong glance. “You seem to have all the answers, Dimitrius.”
He shrugged. “It is my job to see all the possibilities to best guard the realm, Raedon.”
The general pursed his lips. “You do not seek to take the throne yourself?”
Dimitri snorted and shot Raedon a look of disgust. “Certainly not. I’d have to put up with this confounded court all the time. I couldn’t stand such a thing.”
Raedon chuckled dryly. “I hear that. I cannot stand the bowing and scraping myself.”
That wasn’t the half of it, in Dimitri’s eyes. Far much more sin passed there than that. To his credit, Raedon was one of the few who rose above such pettiness, who kept his reputation intact. But Dimitri did not say it.
“I will lend my support in any case, General,” Dimitri pressed, for Raedon dithered. “I will stand beside you, in the shadows, and keep the peace.”
Raedon shook his head. “I worry still about this curse. Is it truly Saradon’s Curse, or is it mere rumour, blown out of proportion by a thousand mouths?”
Dimitri turned to Raedon, who stilled at the seriousness on his face. “It is Saradon’s Curse.”
“How can you know?” Raedon fired at him at once.
Dimitri regarded Raedon, choosing his words with care. “Saradon has returned. He is alive.”
The general gaped at him. “No. That’s impossible !”
“It is so. I have reports of unquestionable validity that say he walks once more.”
“But it cannot be the case. He’s a half-elf. Even if he had somehow lived, he ought to be dead by now.”
Dimitri shook his head. “Saradon is as young and strong as the day he vanished.”
Raedon took a long moment to recover. “You are certain ? Beyond any doubt?”
“Yes.”
The general looked out over the city in dumbfounded shock. “What should we do? Ought we tell the king?”
“Heavens, no. We must deal with this. Toroth is unfit to. The mere mention of Saradon’s Curse sent him into madness.”
“But if this is truly Saradon’s Curse, then?—”
“All the more reason not to—not unless you wish him to burn the whole damned city to the ground.”
Raedon’s jaw clenched, and a muscle there ticked, but he did not contradict Dimitri, for the general knew he was right. “What of those afflicted?”
“They have poor prospects.”
“They will all die?”
“Unless a counter-curse or cure is found. I have scoured the old records, and nowhere is any remedy recorded.” The Dragonhearts had been the key when Saradon had risen before. Their power had scoured the land, obliterating his curse. And, as Dimitri and Raedon both knew, the king’s entire stock of Dragonhearts was gone. Part lost in the escape of the Thief of Pelenor, and the rest to the king’s selfish greed and paranoia. No one but Toroth knew where they were hidden—and Dimitri reckoned the king had lost so much of his mind even he no longer knew.
“We must tell the king.”
“No!” said Dimitri quickly. “It would reduce him to tatters. We must stay his hand, contain him—neutralise him, if needed—before we deal with the threat of Saradon. If Toroth knows, he will not act in good sense and of sound mind. He is quite insane.”
Raedon’s ragged growl of frustration was lost as the wind snatched it away. His gaze slipped to the still blackened plains before the city. Toroth would purge everyone and everything he could if he thought it would help. Suppressing a smile, Dimitri watched Raedon come to the same conclusion.
“We will not tell him. For now,” Raedon agreed at last. “I will marshal my riders and the Kingsguard. We shall secure Tournai, then send riders throughout the land to spread news of the necessary measures we are taking to secure Pelenor.”
“Excellent.” Dimitri turned to leave.
“What of Saradon?” Raedon asked quickly. “Where is he? Does he possess assets? Allies?”
Dimitri mulled over what to share. “He has power that the old stories do not mention. At present, he is outside our borders, but not by far. I am informed of his movements.”
“Then we shall go to him, attack him!”
Dimitri scoffed. “Do not be so brash, Raedon. Such rashness is what got your brother into the mess he’s in now. Saradon already has the alliance of the goblins. They sweep across Valtivar, taking what they will. That is the truth of why the dwarven kingdom is in such chaos and why the passes are closed to our trades. The dwarves hold out, for now, but Pelenor will be next.”
“Then I will mass our army. I will call everyone to arms.”
Dimitri laughed without mirth. “What army? Given the talk in the city, the common folk will join Saradon just to be free of Toroth.”
“They are bound to their king and country,” Raedon growled.
“What will you do? Burn them if they will not fight for you?” Dimitri’s stare was hard and cold. “No, I do not think so.”
“I have the riders and the Kingsguard. They will stand for Pelenor.”
“If there are any still to stand. I have seen your ranks falling, General.”
Raedon winced. He had clearly hoped Dimitri would not know that, but he forgot the spymaster had eyes and ears everywhere, including inside the dragonhold, where riders lay abed, their dragons sick, as well.
“The academy and the keep are as yet untainted.” The school of dragon riders and the stronghold of soldiers lay across the mountains from Tournai. New stock for Raedon’s ranks, if all else failed. “We have time yet to see how this plays out. One step at a time, General. First, secure the court. Secure Tournai.”
Dimitri made to leave, but Raedon stepped before him. “What will you do?” There was a slight glint of desperation in his eyes, Dimitri was pleased to note.
“Stay in the shadows, as always, and make sure this doesn’t blow up in our faces.” Dimitri walked away, enjoying the grim worry in the high and mighty general of the Winged Kingsguard. It is almost like playing a game of chatura. Except with living people, not wooden pieces, Dimitri thought. He rather enjoyed it.
On his way back to his quarters, Dimitri almost jumped out of his skin as Princess Rosella appeared from the shadows, blooming like a ghost in the shadowed halls.
“Oh, thank goodness. There you are, Dimitri.” Rosella staggered forward and clung to his forearm.
He stared at her, quite dumbfounded as he took in her appearance. She looked ghastly. Her beauty had dimmed, her light extinguished. She was a rose no longer. Rosella’s once shining sheet of golden hair hung lank around her shoulders. Her perfectly tailored dresses now sagged from her skeletal figure. He took in the jut of her collarbone, the twig-like fragility of her wrists, the high cheekbones that now protruded below shadowed, hollowed eyes which darted around with a hint of wildness.
Dimitri could not comprehend what she had been reduced to in mere weeks. “What do you want?” he said without thinking, yet she did not berate him, humiliate him, punish him, as she once would have for such impertinence. Instead, she clung harder to his arm.
“You must help us!” she hissed, winding her arm through his and pressing close. “Mother and father waste away. Father is quite out of sorts, and I worry I am ill, too. You must help!”
Dimitri untangled her arm from his and pressed her hand down to her side, away from him. “I cannot help you.” His words were colder than he had anticipated, but how could he treat her any differently? She had been heartless to him over the years—he was never her lover, only her servant. And now she asked him for help? As she gazed up at him, aghast that he had dared turn her away, he smiled cruelly, turned, and stalked into his quarters, slamming the door behind him.
For once, he would not chase her, not hurry to meet her every demand, not pander to her every desire. For once, he turned her away. For once, he had the upper hand. Yet in the pit of his stomach lurked something quite unfamiliar toward her wretchedness. Something he could not quell. Pity.