Page 8 of Court of Treachery

A sheet of unbidden terror—followed by the snap of unbridled rage for the invasion of his personal space—seared through him as he recognised the intruder. The deep, cool voice was unmistakable. Dimitri let out a deep exhale, and some of the tension drained from him—but not all. To what did he owe thepleasure of such a late, unannounced visit? Besides which, he was not so naïve as to trust that his ally had his best interests at heart. A healthy distrust lurked within him.

Snagging a shirt, which he hurriedly threw over his head, Dimitri rushed down the corridor to where the dying embers of the hearth threw tall shadows around the room. Saradon stood before the fire. To Dimitri’s distaste, he swore he could smell the stench of the goblins upon Saradon, but he made no comment on it.

“Lord Saradon? I did not expect you.”

“Dimitri, is that you?” Emyria’s voice quailed up the corridor. Dimitri froze.

“I have company. You are dismissed,” he ordered, more haughty than he would normally speak to her, but she knew the role he had to play in public and never rebuked him for it. It kept them both safe.

No reply came, and he suppressed a sigh of relief. “Do not worry. We shall not be disturbed, Lord Saradon.” He threw extra wards around them, just in case.

“Do not call me that here. There are too many wanton ears for my liking.”

“Are you certain it is not too dangerous for you to be here? It is too soon to act.” Dimitri quickly sketched his progress since their last encounter.

“You have done well, but yes, we are not in a position to move yet. I come to unleash my most powerful weapon.”

Dimitri stilled and waited, filled with anticipation.

“You shall see.” Saradon smirked once more. “Come.”

They were soon in the bowels of the castle, striding down the quiet corridors with purpose, though Dimitri could not fathom their destination. Every footfall seemed too loud, a jarring clatter that would attract unwanted attention, but Saradon shrouded them so they could pass unheard and unseen by all. Itseemed he wanted to wander the halls of his former home, but Dimitri did not think it was borne of nostalgia.

Past the red cloaks at every checkpoint they went, and true to Saradon’s word, none stopped them or even seemed to perceive their existence. That instinct still prickled uncomfortably underneath Dimitri’s skin.

Down into the depths of the mountain they went, heading straight for the catacombs that held the bodies of past rulers and their families… including Saradon’s own mother, Karietta. Dimitri had not wanted to return there, but he steeled himself for it, for he knew Saradon would not turn his path now. Dark recesses passed them by. Doorways through the crypts leading to chambers, all filled with tombs. It was pitch black but for the amber faelight Saradon guided them with. Now, Dimitri could smell no goblins, but instead, the cool air filled his lungs with slow decay, of dust and dead things long passed.

It felt like a repeat of his previous trip. Indeed, he could still see the faint outline of scuffed tracks in the dust from his last visit, for no one else visited those who rested there. Saradon led the way straight to Karietta’s tomb, raised from the floor with her likeness in stone atop it. She stared, unblinking, into the unending night around her. As Saradon’s faelight bloomed, filling the chamber with warm light, Dimitri leaned closer. The last time he had ventured there, he had not dared such light. He had missed the finest of details upon the tomb—the embellishing of metal, the subtle details of the stone.

“Stay back.”

Saradon’s low voice startled him, and Dimitri dropped back to hover at the edges of the small antechamber, where the walls, hewn from the mountain itself, seeped freezing cold into his back.

Saradon shook his hand free of his obsidian cloak. The ruby signet ring gleamed upon his finger. He slipped it from hishand and approached Karietta’s tomb. Dimitri waited, barely breathing with the anticipation of it. When Saradon pressed the ring to the stone lips of his mother’s likeness, Dimitri could feel it building—a hum of magical energy from Saradon himself. In a low, dark voice, he crooned in a language Dimitri had only heard within the dark Order he had deserted… and it set the hairs all over his body on end. Somehow, the language made the magic grow, as though it controlled the power, but Dimitri was of elf blood, just like Saradon. Magic was instinctive. It did not need words to control it. More than that, it was abhorrentlywrongto form magic by force, to contain and push it within the construct of words. Saradon knew that as well as anyone.

The tales had always said Saradon had no magic until his uprising. Now, Dimitri knew there to be truth to the stories that Saradon had long denied—that he had schooled in dark arts to come by his powers, and perhaps done far worse to acquire them. Once more, Dimitri thought of the Order of Valxiron. Saradon was connected to it somehow. What did he want with them, and they him? A sharing of power?

For a moment, it was as though Dimitri found himself in the chamber under the mountains raising Saradon again, for the warmth flaring within the room and the metallic tang of strange magic searing his tongue were of the same ilk. Most of the energy swirling around them seemed to flow from the ring, not Saradon.Dimitri wondered at it. The trinket had seemed so innocuous, though it was now clear the ring was something far greater. It unnerved Dimitri, but there was no time to think, for a wave of energy, heat, and light flashed through them. At the height of the inferno of noise, a crack echoed through the air as the tomb split asunder before them, the stone fractured and smoking. The magic was gone again in an instant. A sweet, cloying smell overlaid the dark, musty decay of the tomb.

“What was that?” Dimitri asked in a hushed tone.

Saradon turned to him, his face still grim with concentration. “That was the sum of our machinations, Dimitrius. My curse is once more released. This time, I shall not fail.”

His curse!The bottom dropped from Dimitri’s stomach as an icy fear shot through him. He knew the lore. Knew how Saradon’s Curse had decimated the magic of the court until even the dragons could not stand before him.

“Come now. You had no such qualms when we made our pact,” Saradon said, his eyes narrowing.

Dimitri composed himself. “Indeed. You are quite right. There is a price to pay for peace. But this… It will not affect innocents?”

“I shall make sure of it. Only those poisoned by the greed and sin of the court shall be afflicted,” Saradon said quickly. “You are safe, of course.”

Dimitri nodded, though he was not convinced by such easy words. “What will come to pass?”

Saradon’s smile was slow and wide, savouring the thought. “Magic will leech from the court until I possess it all.” He bared his teeth in a wild grin.

Dimitri suppressed a tingle of dark premonition at Saradon’s words. He spoke of darker magic than even Dimitri knew, for he had turned away from that path before learning such ways.

“The court will crumble. As they weaken, I shall strengthen. Toroth and his ilk will be as easy to shatter as glass, and Pelenor shall be mine. No one can stand before me. I have only to wait a short while before I can reach out and take what ought to have been mine. Now,” Saradon added, without waiting for Dimitri’s reply. “I must go. Our savage allies will not manage themselves.” The goblins had accepted Saradon’s proposal. The realisation slid down Dimitri’s spine, cold and jarring. “I shall return when it is time. I expect you to continue our good work, and report to me in person.”

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