Page 13 of Court of Treachery

Ragnar snorted with laughter.

“Brand told me a little about himself… and Nyla.”

Ragnar’s mirth faded. “Yes,” he said sombrely. “To this day, he blames himself, and her death haunts him. I don’t know that he’ll ever let go of her—and put her to rest enough to move on.”

“But… It wasn’t his fault that she died, was it?”

“Honestly, we cannot be sure. I think only he knows the truth of what happened. But he has always taken it upon himself.”

“And Erika?” Harper dared to ask. She still knew almost nothing of the reclusive nomad woman.

“If she has not told you, it is not ours to tell,” said Ragnar, glancing at Aedon, who nodded. “Suffice it to say, she has endured far worse than us all.”

He left it at that. Harper hung onto the cryptic clue, wondering how Erika’s past could be worse than Ragnar’s exile from his people, the death of Aedon’s soulmate dragon, and the murder of Brand’s heart.

Still so many questions. Every time she made headway, finally feeling like she began to understand, she found herself tossed into the gale like a leaf again. Harper could not help but rekindle that swell of something warm in her chest at the thought of leaves dancing in the wind and the feeling of being within Aedon’s arms. She wondered if either of them would heed Brand’s tense warning. Harper glanced at Aedon, but his gaze was on the fire once more, brooding.

10

SARADON

It was the darkest hour of the night. Afnirheim, the dwarven stronghold to the east of Valtivar’s capital, Keldheim, slumbered, unaware of the nightmare that was about to unleash itself upon the dwarven city.

The last sheaf of rock crumbled away, opening a fissure to what lay beyond. It was only slightly less pitch black than where they stood. Saradon detested the cramped tunnel, but he bore being hunched over without complaint. It was time to show his goodwill to the goblins, fulfilling his end of the bargain, so they would serve him when the time came. Around him, they shrieked and chattered with excitement as the rush of cool, fresh air whooshed past them. Saradon breathed a sigh of relief. Even his wards had not been able to shut out the most permeating of the goblins’ stench.

Behind him, the horde awaited thepascha’s signal. They filled the honeycomb of roughly hewn and hacked passages, which tunnelled through the rock, like a rot creeping from the depths to snare the roots of what grew above, for that was what they were. A plague that would consume Afnirheim from below. It had taken every tooth and claw at thepascha’s command, along with Saradon’s own magic, to bind them. Goblins did notwork in unity, but Saradon forced them—otherwise, surprise and success would not be theirs, and both were crucial to his machinations.

At thepascha’s screeching command, the goblins surged forward into the lower levels of Afnirheim. It was so far into the kingdom of Valtivar, and the dwarves had no idea they were there. Saradon allowed his face to split into a wide grin as the feral beasts surged past him. Like a tide, they swept through the caverns where the dwarven goblin slaves, thetikrit, were kept. All were freed from their bonds and hauled from the grill-covered pits to join the horde. And join it they did, gleefully. They could now exact revenge on their dwarven masters.

They took the settlement by surprise. Against the undiminished battle rage of the goblins, the slumbering dwarves stood no chance. It was not long before the air was tainted with the iron tang of blood, the cool quiet of Afnirheim riven by an ear-splitting, crescendoing cacophony of goblin shrieking and dwarven screaming.

Saradon had neither love nor hate for the dwarves. They were simply a necessary casualty—and their deaths were on the goblins’ hands, not his own. War was coming. They would be the first of many to die. After all, the wheel had to be broken before it could be rebuilt. Saradon did not need to stay to see what transpired next. By the bloody dawn, Afnirheim would belong to thepascha, and thepaschawould belong to him.

11

DIMITRI

Queen Idaelia never missed the Samhain festivities. As autumn turned to winter, the queen, who was winter incarnate, brought cold and slumber to the land. Without fail, she sat atop the dais in the king’s own place as a living embodiment of the mother of all nature, a symbol of the turn of the year.

Tonight, the throne was empty.

The king did not deign to sit upon it, though it was his own, for he would not break tradition and risk cursing the changing of the seasons. Instead, it was Rosella who arrived, late and flustered, to sit in her stepmother’s place. She was radiantly beautiful, but a sham, and all who dined within the hall knew it.

There were other notable absences that no one could miss. Thaeus, pleading illness, had already fled, as had some others. It created a flurry of rumours to circle around the room in whispers the king, dining with his sons and daughter at the top table, could not hear.Illnesswas some of the whispers.Treasonothers.

“Did you know Lord Khyrion hasn’t been seen for two weeks?”

“Dead and buried already, I hear.”

Dimitri let them gossip. He knew full well that Khyrion, one of his own now, had fled, also under the pretence of illness, to avoid the king’s wrath, spooked that the king would somehow discover the very crimes Dimitri had blackmailed him with.

Toroth brooded at the top table, where a cloud of darkness held court. The conversation quieted around him, for his foul mood dared anyone to speak just one word he did not like. Dimitri sat in silence, too, listening and observing—as Toroth had intended, but for his own ends. It was clear Saradon’s Curse was at work. Some of the absences were the result of cowardice, nothing more. Other ailments were inexplicable, including the queen’s. She had never been struck down by any malady. Dimitri knew what would happen next, if Saradon, and the tales of his first rising, were to be believed.

Idaelia would wither away, her magic dwindling until, at last mortal, she would die. Elfkind could not survive without magic in their blood, so intimately were the two bound. It had been easy, at first, to imagine death changing the court. But faced with those he knew dying, whether he liked them or not, Dimitri did not entirely know how to feel.

Dimitri caught the subtle beckon, the curl of Toroth’s finger, to attend him. He hurried to the king’s side, bending toward him. “Yes, sire?”

“I like it not. All these missing faces? It is no coincidence. Who plots what, Dimitrius?”

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