23. Dimitri
23
Dimitri glided through the fabric of the world, easily keeping pace with the dragon-riders flying above him. They had offered him, albeit reluctantly, passage with them, but Dimitri had refused. He was not partial to heights, and his own means of travelling worked just as well. Sinking his being into the river of magical energy that flowed alongside the living world, he had slipped from one point to another as he wished upon shadow and wind.
It was a skill few were aware he had and even fewer could master. Not even the king knew of it. It was an elven art lost long ago that he had only discovered through extensive research and more than a little arcane instruction. The dragon-riders of the Winged Kingsguard had openly mocked him, but Dimitri shrugged it off. Let them, he thought. Let them wonder and be afraid when he arrived before them with not a hair on his head disturbed.
As they circled into a descent, he marked their destination—a craggy outcrop on a ridge of hills to the south of Tournai. He picked his own stopping point, the summit of the tallest rocky escarpment, and settled himself on a rock, the picture of relaxed and unspent calm. He wore no cloak, only his usual immaculate, tailored, dark suit, but a small charm warded off the biting wind that nipped at his cheeks. They did not need to see him shiver.
When the three-dozen dragon-riders landed to find him idly leaning on one hand and staring out over the valley before him, their surprise was evident. Yet, they did not ask him how it was possible. No, they would not show him they were curious. They would not admit they did not understand something he could do that lay outside their abilities.
“You found it all right, I see,” their leader called to him as he dismounted, an edge of annoyance in his tone.
“Of course, General,” Dimitri said. He met his gaze and gave him a sly smile, but offered him no more explanation. It would aid him to unnerve them and their egos.
“Well, don’t get in our way. What are you even here for, Spymaster?” General Raedon was far older and wiser than Dimitri, and far outranked him. His long, dark golden hair was braided neatly under his helm, and royal blue surcoat and shining silver armour covered a muscled, heroic figure. Raedon was everything Dimitri was not. Everything he had once sought to be.
Dimitri shoved off the rock and strolled toward him, his hands in his pockets. “I’m here at the orders of the king, not yours. I shall go where I please, do what I please, and see what I please, Raedon Lindhir Riel of House Felrian.” His use of Raedon’s formal title—above his own in rank—was a warning, not a mark of respect.
Raedon knew it, and his jaw clenched. Dimitri could see the infuriation at such insubordination—and overrule by the king. Dimitri smiled casually with a flicker of smugness, just enough to annoy Raedon even further. “The king will be most pleased to hear you offer me every assistance.”
Raedon was forced to defer. “The Winged Kingsguard are at your service, Dimitrius Vaeri Mortris of House Ellarian.” Every word was forced through clenched teeth.
Dimitri knew Raedon would sooner see him shredded by dragon talons than help, but luckily, they were all still bound by the king’s orders—for now. Raedon did not bow, and Dimitri did not expect him to. He could have forced the issue, but there was more than one way to get what he desired.
“Excellent. You will tell me your exact movements that have been planned in advance, and unplanned movements as soon after the fact as is possible. I will conduct my own searches. You need not be concerned with me treading on your claws.” He threw a look of disdain at the closest dragon, who rumbled in warning at him.
Raedon nodded, his jaw clenched. Dimitri sauntered off without another word, as if he were out for a walk in the fragrant palace gardens on a summer’s eve, not standing on an increasingly blustery peak without a cloak on.
“Lyros. Caren.” Raedon summoned his deputies with a snap in his tone, to Dimitri’s great satisfaction. “Gather everyone.”
Dimitri followed them all day, slipping through the folds of the world as they flew far above him, feeling with every ounce of his perception for that telltale signature of magic, to no avail. By the moon’s next rise, Dimitri was in as foul a mood as Raedon as they camped at the foot of the crags, sheltered by the tall pines that grew there and shallow caves under the cliffs.
Unable to bear their less than welcoming company, he slipped away to the top of the crags just as the sun slipped below the horizon, shattering the sky into flames as day burned to night. His worries blazed just as brightly, and he was glad for the barren solitude that afforded him no need to hide the depths of his concerns. The gusty wind chased the shadows from his soul, but the skies held no answers. The question hammered him with every beat of his heart, that ever-present undercurrent of panic thrumming with it. How far away have I sent the Dragonheart?