Page 49 of Court of Treachery

“The girl…”

Dimitri froze. He could only mean Harper.

“She sang to me,” Saradon murmured, as if in a daze. “It was as though my mother’s blood called to me once more. Why, had I not known better, known it to be impossible, I would have thought her my kin.” He frowned, staring into nothingness.

Dimitri swallowed. “It could well be so, Lord. Perhaps she is a distant relation. You know how the Houses intermingle.”

Saradon met his gaze, steel in his eyes. “I do indeed, yet the line of Ravakian is ash, dead and buried. There could be none of my blood.”

Dimitri squirmed. “If I may, Lord. I do not believe you to be correct. I have been the king’s spymaster for decades. I have known his innermost business, his most secretive thoughts…things that could have destroyed him over the years. There was one secret I knew that he only shared with perhaps one other.”

Saradon did not speak, but his attention commanded Dimitri to continue.

“You had a son, am I correct?”

Saradon stiffened.

Dimitri held up his hands to placate him. “I know it to be true. I know nothing more than that of him. I suspect no one living, save perhaps the king, knows any more than that. Your son had a daughter before he died, and no, I do not know the means of Arven’s passing. It was before my time. The daughter, Ilrune, was killed on Toroth’s orders.”

Dimitri shook his head, sensing Saradon’s anger growing. “I played no part in it. You may examine my mind to know I speak the truth,” he added hastily. Saradon gave a sharp nod for him to continue. “The general of the Winged Kingsguard saw that Ilrune met her demise upon the king’s orders. Afterward, there was just one question I heard the king ask that the general could not answer. Ilrune perhaps had a child. Her lover was already dead, but the child, a babe in her arms… No remains were found for the babe when Raedon executed the pair of them. It will be some twenty-five years past, give or take. No one could find the child. Not the king, not the general… not me.”

But now, Dimitri had a growing sense of dread as he finally, painstakingly, connected the dots. A mysterious woman of elven blood, about twenty-five summers old, from a land where she should not have existed… A missing baby twenty-five summers hence, sent far away by her mother in order to protect her. The Dragonheart findingher, instead of coming tohimto bring about Saradon’s rise. How it had brought her home to Pelenor before she ever knew she belonged there. The charm on the bracelet that linked her to Saradon, to the line of Ravakian. As everything clicked, he wished he had never spoken the words.Even before Saradon declared it, Dimitri knew it to be true, and the blood drained from him.

He could not take his words back.

“The girl is the babe.” Saradon exclaimed, his eyes alight with an excitement Dimitri had never seen before. “Fate drew her here. Her blood called to me. That is why. She is the blood of my blood—my soleheir, no less—I must have her,” he hissed, whirling on Dimitri, fervent in his desire.

Dimitri’s knees threatened to fold as he stood, hollow, whilst Saradon celebrated the survival of his bloodline.She cannot be his blood, he thought desperately. It would irrevocably change her fate, change her safety. Now he had no way to keep her from Saradon’s attention.

“I have an heir!” Saradon crowed. “What a gift.”

Crushed, Dimitri bowed. He did not dare speak.

At that moment, thepaschaand his chieftainsburst in, cavorting across the jarlshalle, all drowning in dwarven armour, jewelry, weapons, and other spoils. Saradon’s jubilation tempered upon their arrival. Dimitri knew thepaschawanted more. More than Saradon was willing to give. Their disagreements never ended beautifully. Saradon’s magic always won. Dimitri had no desire to get in their way.

Using their entrance as a distraction, Dimitri slipped away, his heart thundering, into the ether, racing as far and fast as he could. Yet no matter how far or fast he fled, he could not outrun the doubt and panic crescendoing within him. Harper was Saradon’s kin—that was the missing piece of the puzzle—and now she was in more danger than ever, because Saradon knew it. The unfamiliar beast of his conscience haunted him, jarring in his bones and bitter upon his tongue. She had been safe. Without his meddling, she would have lived her days in Caledan, none the wiser.Dimitrius, you fool! This is all your fault.

40

HARPER

Upon their return to Keldheim, König Korrin immediately set about fortifying the dwarven stronghold, whilst Afnirheim’s surviving casualties, Ragnar amongst them, were treated in the city’s infirmary. Harper and her companions crowded into Ragnar’s sick bay, unwilling to leave his side. After the traumatic and exhausting retreat from Afnirheim, it took another day before he regained consciousness. His breathing deepened and colour slowly returned under the ministration of the dwarven healers and Aedon, who gave Ragnar what magic he could to speed his healing and take the pain away.

Harper tried to push away the lump in her throat. Ragnar was a shadow of his former self. Tucked into the deep, dark coverlets, he looked pale and frail, his strength diminished. His once beautiful beard had been roughly hewn, some of it torn out. His face was swollen and bloodied. She had not seen the rest of his body, but Aedon had grimly informed them all that the rest of him was in no better state.

Worst of all, he now had two fingers and part of his thumb missing on his dominant hand. The wounds were dark, swollen, and infected. It had taken all Aedon’s concentration to draw the poison and infection out so the wounds could heal. Harper’s heart ached. With those injuries, Ragnar might never carvechaturapieces again as he so loved.

After the fearful exhilaration of the retreat, their high spirits had diminished upon realising what—or, rather, whom—they faced, as well as the health of their friend.

“He’s still alive at least,” Brand murmured, frowning. Despite Ragnar’s state, they knew it could have been far worse.

“We were lucky,” said Erika, her voice hollow. “So many others did not make it.” They shared a moment of silence. It was unlikely they would see any of the dwarves left behind again. Harper privately thought death would be a better outcome than remaining as a prisoner in the now goblin stronghold.

Aedon stirred, but did not speak, his attention fixed upon the rise and fall of Ragnar’s chest under the beige linen shift. His bandaged hands rested atop his belly, the wrapping clean compared to the dirt and blood that had covered his hands when they found him.

“What ishedoing?” Erika asked. They did not need to know who she meant.

“I do not know,” said Aedon. “We can only presume that, somehow resurrected, he means to continue his old mission, to sunder the wheel of society. It is a dark day indeed if he starts by seeking alliance with the black hearts of the goblin scum.”

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