28. Harper
28
Harper gathered kindling from around the dell, troubled by her companions’ unexplained coldness toward her, and the encounter with the male who had named himself Dimitrius—and thrown her into yet more turmoil.
Dimitrius Vaeri Mortris of House Ellarian.
His name was a song on her tongue, and those violet eyes burned through her. She shook off the shiver they brought and quickly glanced around. It felt like he still watched her, but he had vanished, and Aedon had thrown up every ward he knew around their camp, his easy smile lost in an uncharacteristically thunderous mood that she instinctively shied away from. Nestled in the crook of a gushing stream and surrounded by trees, they were safe from whatever hunted them, Aedon assured her.
But perhaps not from him. What did Dimitrius want with her? To have appeared precisely there and then… Harper had begun to believe less and less in coincidences. He found her somehow—and she could not help but wonder if it was connected to the Dragonheart. She was not entirely convinced he would not do it again, and much as she hated herself for it, a small sliver of her wanted to see him.
She had never met anyone who had elicited such a storm of emotion within her, one that disturbed the depths of her so deeply that her thoughts were mud churning in writhing waters, turning sense into madness. For, as much as those violet eyes of his promised punishment and fear, there was a spark within them that drew her closer in fascination, like a moth damned to a flame.
The woods closed in around her, so Harper crashed through the brush more noisily than she ought to on her return to camp, on edge from the shadows that chased her. The growing darkness was a threat looming over her shoulder—one that sent a nip to her step and an uncomfortable crawl down the base of her spine. Was he out there even now, watching her?
She joined Ragnar at the fire, whilst Erika butchered the couple of rabbits they had found that day—luckily, it transpired, for Harper’s hunt had yielded nothing but questions and danger. Soon, the dark meat bubbled away in a pot with some root vegetables that were unfamiliar to her—purple carrots and potato-like tubers the size of her head with the bizarre appearance of ginger.
As they sat to eat, Harper bit into the rich, lean meat appreciatively, savouring the herb-laden gravy and listening to Aedon’s latest tale of grandeur and adventure, for he had already wolfed his meal, as seemed to be his habit. Harper lowered her gaze back to her bowl when she noticed the rest of the group’s attention on her.
Even Aedon stared intently as he spoke, now to her. “You told us a story, so it’s my turn tonight. Let me tell you a tale from Pelenor of nightmares and monsters…” Aedon’s voice dropped into a lower cadence as he hunched closer to the fire. “Let me tell you the tale of Saradon.”
The fire threw flickering shadows across his face, morphing the handsome visage into a caricature of light and shadow that delved under his hood. His eyes were faint glimmers in the darkness. Harper instinctively leaned closer. The fire was warm on her front, but cold shadows trailed across her back. They left lingering shivers rippling across Harper’s skin as the hair on the back of her neck rose with anticipation. She could not help but be drawn in by his promise of a dark tale.
“Saradon was one of the king’s many cousins, a half-elf born to the coupling of an elven mother and a human father, a princeling of the Realm of Pelenor, who would make it even more strong and prosperous in the coming years. Saradon was born amidst much glory and celebration, but alas, something was wrong. Saradon was not as he ought to have been.”
Aedon paused and met each of their gazes in turn. The others, who seemed to recognise the tale, sat back, their interest fading. Brand cleaned his weapon, Erika returned to patching up her cloak, and Ragnar picked morsels of meat from his teeth, staring into the flames. Harper leaned forward, breathless with anticipation.
“Saradon was half-elf by blood, yet he possessed no magic.” Again, Harper wondered why this was so critical for Pelenor, unable to shake the fact that magic could not really be that important if entire nations of mortals in Caledan and beyond survived without it.
“No magic,” Aedon repeated, shaking his head. “Of course, it was the greatest shame of the kingdom when word spread that the blood of the royal line was tainted thusly. What could have caused it? Was the babe cursed? Was the very blood of the line, perhaps the king himself, cursed? Rumours grew, spreading like wildfire and changing just as rapidly, until all the Kingdom of Pelenor, and even farther afield, had heard of the cursed child filled with anti-magic.
“Of course, Saradon was just a boy. He was not evil. He was smart and gifted, for all his mortal limitations. He heard the tales, though his mother tried to protect him from them. She loved her boy more than all the world and did not want him to be hurt. Healers were sent for. The finest mages in all the kingdom were called. The greatest elven minds were summoned. Yet no cure could they find, for he suffered no affliction. Random chance, they called it. Ill fortune. He was both a miracle and a mistake.
“His mother loved him all the same, desperate to protect her child from the hurt and sorrow she knew would find him as time marched on. His father was not so kind, giving all his attention to Saradon’s siblings, who were as half-elves ought to be—brimming with power. Saradon was hidden away, the shame of his family and the royal bloodline. Saradon knew himself to be different, marked, and not in a way that was blessed. His heart saddened, then hardened, and a darkness was born within him. It was all of the court’s fault, from that day to this.”
The fire crackled and spat vigorously, making Harper jump backwards. Brand smirked, but Aedon’s atmospheric guise did not fall into the shadows of his cloak. Across the fire, Ragnar’s impassive face illuminated as he puffed on his pipe, the glowing embers within casting a ruddy hue across him with each breath that flared them into life. The darkness swelled oppressively around them as the last light over the horizon dimmed to nothing.
“As Saradon grew, he saw what an imbalance of power there was in Pelenor. As a half-elven princeling, nephew to the king, he should have been given every right and privilege of his rank, yet he was cut out from both for his lack of magic. He grew bitter—and who could blame him? Slowly, he retreated further into the shadows. Despite his rank, he would never hold power. Despite his blood, he would never inherit. Such was the curse of a mortal life. Saradon grew so angry, so disillusioned, that he sought to make a change. Perhaps his intentions began nobly, or perhaps they were always selfish. Perhaps there were lessons to be learned. That those of mortal blood could be useful in their own way. Perhaps mortality without magic was not a curse after all. Yet all his life, Saradon had been told it was, so what else was he to think? He despised them all for it,” Aedon continued darkly.
Harper could not tell to whom the anger in his voice was directed—at Saradon or those who had wronged him.
“In his anger and hate, he decided he would cast them all down, save for his mother, whose love had never erred. He would destroy his father, his uncle the king, and all those who thought he was a blight upon the kingdom. He would take down the elves, magic itself, and rule in his own right, to prove that those without magic could also wield power.
“Perhaps Saradon’s cause was noble at first, lifting up those with no voice of their own. At the time, mortals had little say in the running of the kingdom. However, his methods were entirely selfish. Some say the Dragonhearts are what helped him. He stole them and bound them to his will with the darkest of magics, for he was supposed to have none. With the same evil magics, he sapped the king of his strength, then the court, the city, and eventually all those who opposed him, even sending the dragons of the Winged Kingsguard into a slumber from which they could not awaken, all the while absorbing their power. Neither before nor since has Pelenor seen such a dark curse. None could stand in his way. The mighty Kingsguard was rendered useless in a heartbeat. Then he struck.”
Harper was frozen, barely breathing—waiting for the hammer to fall. Aedon’s eyes fixed upon her, ensnaring her in his gaze as the fire died. She jumped at the crash and shower of sparks as Ragnar tossed another log onto the flames, and her heart raced into a frenzied pitter-patter. A flicker of a smile crossed Aedon’s face at her involuntary movement. He was a born storyteller, and she could tell he fed from the energy of his audience by the way he leaned closer, his eyes only for her, making sure she gave him all of her attention.
“Saradon had spent many a year sympathising with those who shared his views in Pelenor. To be mortal, to have no magic, to be anything other than an elf was not a cursed thing. To be forced to live as a second-class citizen was a crime in and of itself, one that wronged them all. In his eyes, and those who followed him, it was something that needed to be righted—and punished. His armies, consisting of humans and other creatures, flooded the kingdom. The king’s army, without its magic, was at a severe disadvantage. It seemed all would be lost… until Saradon’s plan backfired. The dragons awoke from their cursed slumber and returned to the fight. It was enough to tip the scales.”
“What then?” Harper’s voice was barely louder than a breath.
“The king’s armies swept through Pelenor, annihilating Saradon’s forces without mercy. Those who had followed Saradon, as well as their families, were killed or imprisoned. Saradon’s entire family was executed, even his dear mother—perhaps especially his dear mother—for fear they would support him. That was the last straw for him. It is said his mother’s death drove him to the brink of insanity and beyond. That it broke some part of him, the only decent part of him that remained.
“Saradon escaped and fled into exile. No trace of him was found, seen, or heard from again. He was rumoured to have been killed, but no body or proof has ever been offered. His defeat brought peace to Pelenor, but there was a fracture there that is still, even now, not yet healed. There should have been lessons learned—and there were some, but not enough. Those without magic were given greater protection in the kingdom, but it did not go far enough to securing equality. There was too much suspicion and bitterness, fear and anger, hurt and sorrow for all to be forgiven.”
Aedon’s voice was tinged with sadness. “Wrongs were written between those of magical blood and non-magical blood where none had existed before. Those prejudices still run amongst us. As peaceful as Pelenor may seem now, it is perhaps more divided than ever. Over all hovers one deep-rooted fear to this day. That he, or his likeness, will return.” He fell into silence as the darkness closed in and the crackling of the fire seemed unnaturally loud.
“Will he?” Harper whispered, not daring to speak louder.
Aedon shrugged. “No man, elf, or anyone else knows.”
“When did this happen?”
“Five hundred years ago or so.”
“Five hundred?” Harper gasped. “Surely he’ll be dead by now.”
“Nay. A half-elf with magic will live for many hundreds of years. Even without magic, he will have had a much longer lifespan than most. And he was clever. There are certain dark measures one can take to extend their life, dangerous though they are. With the power of the Dragonhearts, he surely guarded himself well.”
“Do you think he will return?”
Aedon did not answer for a moment. “Long before Saradon was even born, there was a prophecy made that the elves connected to him, whether or not it be true, that says he will rise once again, and be many more times as deadly and devastating. Dark tidings indeed, if it is to be true.”
“Enough.” Erika’s voice was unnaturally harsh, even for her. “Do not fill the girl’s head with silly stories and nonsense. Saradon is dead, gone, and he will not return. It is a story, nothing more.”
Harper looked between them, confused. Aedon stared at Erika without replying. The woman clenched her jaw. “What?”
“I know this tale affects you personally. I apologise. I did not intend to cause offense.”
“I know, storyteller.” All the same, Erika jumped to her feet and stalked from the fire, disappearing into the pitch black of the night.
“Don’t leave the wards.” Brand’s voice rang after her.
Harper continued to glance between Aedon and the spot where Erika disappeared. What in Caledan am I missing here? Erika was involved with Saradon? Surely she’s not old enough.
Brand shared a glance with Aedon. “It is her story to tell,” he said in a surprisingly gentle voice.
“I know,” Aedon said heavily, looking back at Harper. “One day, Harper, I hope you will understand why Erika is the way she is, but trust to us, she has endured the greatest of hardships. The fact she is alive at all is a miracle, and that along with the fact she still continues to smile and hope is more besides.”
Harper did not understand. His words only made Erika seem even more mysterious and cryptic. Smile? Hope? Harper did not think she had ever seen the grimfaced woman’s lips crack in anything other than a scowl.
“So the people of Pelenor fear that he, or his followers, will rise again? Those with magic fear those without it?”
Aedon nodded. “Yes, and vice versa. It is why people will fear you, Harper.” His dark eyes regarded her solemnly.
“Me? That’s…” Rubbish. Impossible.
“Yes, you. You carry his mark on your bracelet. And the power of a Dragonheart, a stone that should not exist, at least in your possession. What does that make you? Perhaps a dark sorceress? That scares people.”
Harper felt a tingle of unease. “But I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I know that.” He gestured around them. “We know that. But fear is hard to overcome. Fear of the past, fear of strangers, fear of danger. You will not be allowed to stroll up to the king and present your case. There will be much explaining to do first, and you must make sure your voice is heard. Otherwise, it will not end well.”
“I’m good at persuading people,” Harper said, more confidently than she felt. After all, she had managed to remain safe all those years of working at the inn. Old Robson hadn’t been the first patron to cross a line. And before that, before Betta had taken her in, the streets had been a terrible place for a young girl. She had endured. Made herself small. Convinced others to ignore her, to disregard her, to leave her be. And when it served, she had made them pity her, to give her charity or a chance. Whatever it took to survive in a world that did not care for starving, penniless orphans.
“Hmm,” Aedon replied noncommittally.
She caught his implied undertone, and resentment surged.