10. Dimitri
10
Away from the overwhelmedness of the ball—and Rosella—it was far easier to clear his head. Dimitri fled blindly, the taste of Rosella still upon his lips, no matter how much he rubbed at them until he finally stopped, far away from the noise and light. He was surprised to find himself in the royal gallery. A stroke of something unearthly ran down his spine. What had brought him there, of all places? He walked across the smooth floor with his eyes closed, slowing his breathing, filling his lungs with clean, cool air. Here, it was not polluted with drink, food, sweat… and the scent of greed. There was only darkness and silence.
Why do I do it?
Rosella’s face swam before his mind’s eye. He envied them, but the more he acted like the rest of them, the more he hated himself for it. It was like his own personal brand of torture. He pushed thoughts of her away. No doubt he would go to her later—he always had to—but he relished this moment of reprieve.
He stopped and opened his eyes. Dimitri stood once more before the portrait of Saradon. Not the meek, sitting study, but the one of fire and might as Saradon stood tall, wreathed in flame and darkness. He seemed even more foreboding in the dark gallery, and the stillness of the air, the utter silence, muffled even Dimitri’s racing heart—but not his mind. That was as sharp as a razor, unclouded by the drink that corrupted the rest of them.
This was an opportunity.
The king conspired to commit the ultimate crimes in his greed. Dimitri could not imagine a more horrific way to punish those who had done nothing wrong aside from the usual pettiness of the court. They were all as bad as the king, but Toroth was the worst of them all. The sum of their sins.
Now Dimitri’s panic and rage ebbed, he saw potential. It would not be easily done, yet perhaps it was more possible than ever. The kingdom of Pelenor had bled for years, but the king had not staunched the wounds. Money. Men. Never-ending tithes and taxes to fund his lavish lifestyle and meaningless conquests.
Dimitri would not be the only one who desired Toroth to fall. Indeed, as his spymaster, Dimitri knew exactly who sought that end, if only for their own greed. Now it was time to use that knowledge, he thought for the first time. A sudden wave of clarity rushed through him, cleansing his mind. How could he achieve it? He stared into Saradon’s frozen gaze, as if the painting could tell him. Saradon had done it. The half-elf with no magic had nearly crippled the kingdom.
How? Dimitri asked, but no answer came.
Perhaps it would be as simple as exploiting those who sought Toroth’s downfall. Bribery, extortion, threats—but Dimitri rankled at that. Such things were beyond his nature, though he did it daily for the king’s bidding. Perhaps it would not be so terrible, for the greater good, but his gut told him that sowing badness would not lead to noble ends. Perhaps he could band them together, united on a common front, though they should hate him, regardless of his part in their greatest desires. Dimitri could not bring himself to that end, either. To do all that and still be hated.
No, perhaps Saradon had the best idea of all—to break the wheel. Dimitri could see Saradon’s Mark, the riven circle, burning bright upon his chestplate, as though it were living flame itself. That was beyond Dimitri. He was so close, but he did not have the assets, men, and alliances needed. He would be hard-pressed to find the former, and it would be nigh on impossible to secure the latter.
Moonlight bloomed across the shining floor, illuminating him where he stood amongst the inky shadows and casting its glow onto the foot of the canvas before him. Dimitri froze. Within the portrait itself, in the crystal raised before Saradon, the smallest glittering called him closer. It was such a lifelike painting, Dimitri thought, but the way it twinkled… Paint did not have such properties. He silently stepped forward. Tucked inside the faceted surface of the illustrated crystal, he saw runes, faintly glowing blue and silver. Lunar runes. He had seen few before. These were old and fading. It was a wonder he had noticed them at all. If the moon had not shone at that precise angle, at that precise moment, he would have seen nothing.
Could he read them? Dimitri bent closer. The alphabet sprang into focus, and he murmured the runes aloud. They were scripted in the elven tongue of Auraria—unusual enough in itself—and too subtle to be graffiti. These had been painstakingly included. If they were to only be visible by the light of the moon, they must have held some weight. And yet, he doubted they had been put there with Toroth’s knowledge or permission… or the same of any monarch beforehand.
“‘The Heart of a Dragon shall resurrect him. The Heart of a Dragon will cast him down.’ That makes no sense.” Dimitri frowned at the cryptic message. As he stepped back and glanced at the painting in its entirety, he noted where the runes were written. On an illustration of a Dragonheart. Who would go through so much effort in order to leave a nonsense message? There must have been more to it than he could see, he surmised. What was he missing?
“The Heart of a Dragon shall resurrect him. The Heart of a Dragon will cast him down,” he repeated, murmuring it to himself as he raked a hand through his hair. Was it literal? He was not familiar with the intimate details of Saradon’s legends, only that the Dragonhearts had been used to make his power far greater than it ever would have been otherwise. Dimitri did not know much about the Dragonhearts, either, other than they had fabled powers of some kind—perhaps more than he had realised. If that were the case, it was no wonder the king hoarded them under ward and key.
He fleetingly wished he could get his hands on one, but it would be an impossible task. No one, save Toroth himself, accessed the king’s hoard. He dismissed the idea as soon as he thought it, though a small part of his mind continued to mull over the prospect, reluctant to give up so easily, for Dimitri had often found there was a way to achieve anything. It just required ingenuity, determination, and more than a little measure of luck sometimes. Yet, perhaps this was a match for him. Dimitri did not like to chance failure, or Toroth’s cruel ruthlessness.
Clouds scudded across the moon once more. The runes faded before Dimitri’s eyes, but they were etched into his memory, and his heart burned with a fire of hope that he had never allowed to grow so much before. Now it was stoked, he could not bear to let it die.
The spymaster, the forgotten son, the outcast… He did not know how he would make it come to pass, but he vowed he would. This was the moment he had waited for all his life. He could see the stars aligning now, almost in place, dancing together. Dimitri looked into Saradon’s violent gaze. I am going to finish your work. I am going to take down the king. I am going to break the wheel.