46. Dimitri
46
The order was a physical compulsion, a tug of magic deep within Dimitri. The king summoned at his will and Dimitri was bound to follow. He could have cursed Toroth in that moment. Having dealt with the wood elves, he now had to secure the Dragonheart. The last thing he wanted was to return to Toroth’s side to falsify yet another report that he had not located it—and endure Toroth’s inevitable wrath.
It took all his efforts to conceal the truth from his thoughts, but Dimitri took heart that the charade would soon be over. He listened to Raedon’s reports, too, feeling a noticeable tinge of relief that the Winged Kingsguard weren’t any closer to finding the location of the stone, but in fact drifting further away. He allowed himself a moment’s smug satisfaction, hidden from both Raedon and the king.
“Is that all?” The king’s furrowed brows suggested that it had better not be.
“Your Majesty, every member of the Winged Kingsguard searches from dawn until dusk for your stone.”
“Bah,” spat Toroth, pacing back and forth before the hearth so angrily, Dimitri swore he would wear a hole in the stone. “What of your efforts?” he fired at Dimitri.
He straightened, caught off guard by the sudden switch in the king’s attention. “I am afraid my results are the same as the general’s. It must have travelled far afield indeed.”
They bowed their heads in contrition as the king erupted at them. Curses were shouted, objects hurled, items of priceless value smashed, before the king’s anger abated and he dismissed them. Dimitri held his tongue, averted his eyes, and dipped his head for it all, despite the rebellious streak of anger that spiked in him. Every moment further pushed him towards that inevitable path. This was why the wheel needed breaking. Why Toroth had to be supplanted.
Knowing there was no time to waste, the moment Toroth dismissed them, Dimitri rushed to Saradon’s chamber in the heart of the mountain. He had to make his reports and retrieve the Dragonheart. Now Aedon and his companions knew he sought it, he had no doubt they would do everything in their power to thwart him.
Saradon’s crushing presence greeted him in the warm, stale air of the cavern. Dimitri bowed to the sarcophagus before opening his mind to the strange, not entirely welcome presence of Saradon, who brooded and lurked upon the fringes of his consciousness.
“I have located the Dragonheart, Lord,” Dimitri said without preamble. “I was unable to obtain it due to a complication, but it is safe for now. As soon as I leave here, I shall retrieve it.”
“A complication?” Saradon’s tone was curt, with a bite of impatience. Dimitri could understand that. Five hundred years was a long time to wait.
“Yes.” Dimitri shared a flood of mental images with Saradon’s consciousness, showing the encounter with the wood elves that drew him away from his pursuit of the stone.
“You should have crushed them,” Saradon said flatly.
“They may yet be allies—and I do not want them for enemies.”
“The wood elves ne’er were amicable toward my ilk. They were too high and mighty to associate with the likes of me.”
Dimitri pursed his lips. “I understand that only too well. They were none too keen to cooperate with me, either.”
“Yet your anger is not directed at them.”
Dimitri started. He had not realised it still curled within him, like the embers of a fire that would not die. Before he could respond, Saradon had already stepped into his mind, living through his encounter with the king. He felt Saradon’s disdain for Toroth before he voiced it.
“What a detestable creature. The bloodline has not changed, I see. I shall enjoy casting him down.”
“And I will be glad to see it done by my hand also,” Dimitri said grimly. “The court is a cesspit of greed and selfishness. None more so than Toroth. The kingdom suffers at his hands, and I would see it end.”
“Not just Toroth, though?”
Dimitri realised that his thoughts had strayed to his father. “No,” he admitted. “I still have scores to settle with my father and brothers.” He had never really settled them to his satisfaction. With the court broken, he could seek retribution there too.
“And you shall see it done.” The cave faded away as Dimitri imagined it, not for the first time. Saradon’s voice caught him in the midst of his fantasy. “It will be a turning point for Pelenor. One that ought to have occurred five hundred years ago. I shall not be denied again.”
Dimitri found himself in unfamiliar visions. He flew as if on dragonback, but utterly weightless and without wind, over a lush, green vista. Blue skies reigned from east to west, across verdant valleys and rolling forests, and rivers of silver threaded through the land. They soared over hamlets and towns filled with healthy, laughing peoples. A pale city rose before him. Tournai, cleaner and more pure than ever Dimitri had known it. There was a sweetness in the air. A clean, fresh, natural fragrance that contrasted starkly with the stench of the city streets Dimitri knew.
“Pelenor will be restored to prosperity, peace, and health once more. No longer will the land and its peoples be exploited for all they have.”
Saradon’s anger brought thunderous clouds to the vision. The skies darkened, and suddenly, they were inside Tournai, at the very square where Dimitri had watched Toroth burn the false traitors. The pyres remained, but the figures upon them were very different. They blurred, shifting, but Dimitri saw snatches of faces he knew in them. The king, his father, his brothers, the court.
“I will see it done that Toroth and his kin of blood and spirit are punished for all they have done. The cruelty and greed of the court will be put to death. A fairer Pelenor will be born, and I will see that it does not fall into such depths again,” Saradon growled. “You will be well rewarded for your assistance, in whatever way you choose.”
Dimitri knew what Saradon meant. He could enjoy his fair share of riches if he chose, but he was more alike to Saradon than he had first realised. Righteous revenge was more important than gold to both of them.
“How do we make it so?” Dimitri asked, envisioning the green and prosperous land once more, daring to wonder what a fair court would look like.
“All I need is to break from the shackles of my self-imposed prison,” said Saradon, sighing. “I have power I never could have dreamed of, but it is wasted, trapped here.”
“Forgive me, Lord, but how did you come by it? All the tales tell of your struggles with magic and your use of arcane methods,” Dimitri dared to ask, phrasing it as delicately as he could.
Saradon’s mood flickered, but no anger rolled over Dimitri. “It is enough to know that is not true,” he said in a tone that brooked no further questions, but Dimitri was not satisfied. It did not answer what he had asked, and he knew Saradon had sidestepped his true question. Nonetheless, he nodded, even as his thoughts strayed once more. The portrait of Saradon, dark and evil. There, he was the darkness engulfing the light, yet the Saradon Dimitri found himself with seemed to hold himself as the opposite, a pinprick of light fighting against a growing dark. History is told by the victors, Dimitri reminded himself.
“Arcane powers may be misjudged,” Saradon said, as if he could read his most private thoughts. Dimitri hoped he could not. “Besides, magic is neither evil nor good. It is a tool. Magic is whatever and however it is chosen to be wielded. All magic can be used to do good, as ours shall.”
And evil, thought Dimitri, recalling the charred bodies of the false traitors. “What would you have me do?”
“Retrieve the stone without delay and bring it to me. Once I have the relic and the stone, I shall rise once more.”