Page 40 of Court of Treachery

“It was forged by the hands of elves.”

She scoffed. Little surprise there. Aedon had already told her that her family had likely come from Pelenor.

“Did you never wonder why it has not tarnished over the years? Magic runs through that metal, girl. It is from Pelenor, from the time of Saradon’s rising. It was made by the first son of Saradon.”

“Saradon did not have any children,” Harper said, though the moment she spoke, she realised she had no idea if that were true. Aedon had implied Saradon never had anyone of significance, save his mother—but she knew nothing more than that.

The Mother smiled, as if she heard Harper’s doubt in her own words. “He did not have any children that the worldknewof. His blood still flows today, though even he does not yet realise it. His line remains unbroken…” She paused, as if savouring the moment, “in you.”

32

HARPER

Harper had not heard Vanir correctly. It was the only explanation. Saradon’s line remained unbroken in her? A penniless orphan from halfway across the world?

“I ought to call you Harper of Pelenor. Harper of the House of Ravakian, by your proper birthright, though the name of that House crumbles into dust, and all others are long since dead.”

“No. You must be mistaken.” Harper shook her head and snatched her hand back from Vanir, clutching at the bracelet and the charm. “I’m a nobody from oceans away. I?—”

“The water in your blood does not lie to me, child. You know you are half-elf, yes?”

“Yes…” Harper felt the now familiar curl of magic tingling in her belly, mixing with confusion and anxiety.

“Elves do not reign in Caledan. Nowhere over the Great Sea, in fact. That is the domain of men, those you know as Eldarkind, the faded puppets of the gods.”

Harper frowned. She had no idea what Vanir spoke of.

“No. Your blood is Pelenori. You are the only remaining daughter of the Ravakian line. Your mother is Saradon’s granddaughter, his only grandchild.”

Vanir frowned. “She knew her heritage. I wonder why you were not afforded the same privilege. You deserved more than a life of poverty, despite the curse of your blood. Perhaps she sought to protect you, sending you far away with no knowledge of your birthright.”

Harper had no reply, and for once, her mind had stilled of questions. Only one thing surfaced. She did not understand—and it couldn’t be true.

“I promise you, I speak the truth. Drink of the wellspring and see for yourself.” Vanir tucked her rune stones into a pocket, stood, and shuffled over to a ledge, where a stone chalice stood amongst other paraphernalia. She dipped it into the crystal-clear water and offered it to Harper. “Drink. See.”

Harper obediently sipped. The water was ice cold, jarring her teeth. It carved a freezing path down her throat to sit unpleasantly in her belly. Her head fogged, overcome with dizziness, and Vanir’s warm hands steadied her as she slipped away.

The woman’s hand stroked the babe’s forehead. She was slim and willowy, a curtain of raven hair obscuring the world as she cradled the swaddled child close. Her heart ached at the parting that was to come, and the one she had already made. But there was no choice. They came, and they brought death. She was already doomed, but her babe would live on.

“I wish I could have known you for longer, my princess,” her soft voice crooned in the small space. She wished she had just a little more peace. With him. With them both. Her love had already crossed into death to save them, but it had not been enough. She fingered the leather bracelet he had made her notlong past, with the silver bead that had belonged to her father upon it, and tucked it inside the swaddling. “At least you will have something of your past.”

She shifted, unable to find comfort on the rocks, and retreated farther into the cave, circling her pack carefully. Its contents would be her daughter’s salvation. Outside, cool moonlight filtered in, as the stars twinkled coldly overhead. They watched her, but no longer watched over her. That time had passed. Now they would see as she met her demise. “But they will watch over you, and I with them, daughter,” she promised, and her voice caught. “We both will. I—I will miss you with all my heart as I watch you grow.”

She said it knowing that it was a lie in the hard depths of her heart. When death came—that would be it. The end. Obliteration. Gone. But her heart would shatter if she thought on it, that she would not be there to protect their daughter. She was afraid of death, as much as she tried not to admit it to herself. Long had she known this day might come, but it did not mean she embraced death, or walked to it willingly. She rebelled. Why else had she tried to escape? Yet now, there was nowhere else to run. Only beyond the realms of life, across the border into the unknown. She hoped death would not be painful—she begged the stars silently for at least that small mercy.

“I will meet him again—your father,” she said to herself, infusing her voice with as much strength as possible. “I will pass into his arms.” She still felt them around her, strong, warm, protective. Just as hers were now around their child. The thundering drew closer as wind battered the trees and mountains. She was surrounded. It was time. She swallowed.

“I will not die in a cave, cowering like a beast,” she said with a juddering sob, as tears spilled from her eyes. “I am a daughter of Ravakian.” With one last, loving gaze, taking in every detail of her sleeping baby—the wisps of dark hair, theround, peaceful face, the tiny hands—she kissed her forehead, savouring the tiny body’s warmth. She forced herself to lift her chin and put one foot in front of the other, going to meet her death with a brave heart, no matter the fact that she trembled like a leaf and would sooner turn tail and run as far and fast as she could. They waited outside as she emerged from the trees and into the clearing. She had never been so close to one dragon before, let alone so many. Her breath caught in her chest as she stopped. She forced her feet forward and craned her neck up at them.

“Ilrune, daughter of Arven of the line of Ravakian, you are charged with high treason against the realm and sovereignty of Pelenor,” said the rider atop the largest dragon in the centre of the ring around her.

Her lip instinctively curled at the sight of him in his grand armour and plumed helmet. “It matters not to you that I am innocent, Raedon?” she sneered, despite her fear. She held her ground as his dragon rumbled at her.

“You have been found guilty on al?—”

“I am not guilty for my grandfather’s sins,” she shouted. “My blood is not a measure of my ilk, rider.”

“I do not come to bandy words with a criminal,” he snarled back. “Our orders are clear, and retribution will be sought.”

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