27. Aedon
27
Any goodwill Harper had earned from them vanished in the instant they had seen Dimitrius. Even Aedon was now suspicious of her. It was too much to believe none of it was connected. The Heart of Dragons, the Mark of Saradon, and him. Annoyance and dislike spiked in Aedon at the thought of Dimitrius.
Yet, Harper was clearly shaken by the experience, and all thoughts of hunting abandoned, for she had returned to their camp and sunk to her knees underneath a tree, rubbing her arms as though she could rid herself of what had just happened. Her glazed expression told him that it was no planned meeting—but Aedon did not believe of any goodwill where the dark spymaster of Pelenor’s cruel king was involved. He did not simply appear in the middle of nowhere without reason. And it made unease simmer underneath Aedon’s skin. Aedon tugged his collar away from his neck, the fabric suddenly constricting, as he stood with Brand and Erika who argued furiously under their breaths, whilst Ragnar knelt beside Harper with his hand upon her back. He bent low towards her—to check she was unharmed, it seemed.
Aedon did not know what to make of any of this. Only that they were not safe. He glanced up—the sun had gone and twilight deepened the shadows yawning between the trees. It was against Aedon’s instinct to remain in their present location for that night, but it was the most defensible position they had against Dimitrius or the Tir-na-Alathean elves who were still out there somewhere. No matter the consequences, he would not have them wandering blind through the dark woods, to be picked off one by one.
Why? The question rang without answer to cease it. Dimitrius owed them less than nothing. Indeed, it would serve his own gain and pleasure to turn them all in. How had he found them—and why had he spared them? Did he know Harper? Worse still—was she somehow in league with Dimitrius? It made no sense, no matter how many times Aedon asked himself. He watched Harper like a hawk, determined to divine her. He would catch her tell, if she had one. He would find out, one way or another, if she knew of Saradon, the mark she bore on her charm, the court of Pelenor—or that son of the House of Ellarian. Against every fibre of Aedon’s better judgment, which called him to take the Dragonheart, leave their new companion, and flee far into the night, they made camp as the sun set.