Page 23 of This Midsummer Heart (Seasons of Legend #4)

Chapter twenty-two

The Dragoner's Road

Auberon

T

he

sign

at

the

fork in the road points us to our fate.

Ahead, eastward on the winding Vi del Sol Road, lies the fireswamp and the independent elven land of Embersdeep. Beyond that, the Bridge of Miracles.

We’re so close.

On the other side of the fork, The Dragoner’s Road begins, cutting through rugged terrain until it flourishes with human cities and the Western Cross becomes the Middle Cross, the human strongholds strung like stone beads on a necklace all the way to the Ten Thousand Isles of Renia.

Neither of us hesitate as we take the south-leading path.

I notice the way Titaine’s shoulders, and even her wings, droop the closer we come to the Bridge of Miracles. With all the rain that fell last night, the imprints of horse hooves are easy to pick out.

The clover-like imprint of Giselda’s hooves is nowhere to be found.

All day, as we draw nearer to the fire swamp, I’ve wanted to ask Titaine how confident she feels about her backup plan. I don’t, because I already know the answer.

The lady Titaine is like the sun. It’s the dark elves who have affinity with elements like the moon, the ruler of the tides. She is a master of great sorcery, but chaotic tides are not in her wheelhouse.

I’m not sure they’d be in anyone’s. Even Cassandra, the most magically gifted moon elf I know, could not alter the tide.

Something about these changes to Duskhold’s magic has been able to, however. And that means it’s possible.

I repeat that over and over to myself. It’s possible.

In other moments, I wonder if we’ll even see the waves coming before we’re dashed off that narrow strip of land. It’s called the Bridge of Miracles for a reason.

As I brood over this, Titaine stops dead. I don’t even notice at first. By the time I do, she stands with a hand on the back of her neck, her eyes unfocused, as if she is listening to a distant sound.

A trio of merchant caravans nears, each pulled by oxen, parting from our path at the fork. Still, Titaine doesn’t move.

I try my best to be patient.

At last, her head lifts slowly, her eyes large. “I can sense Giselda.”

“What? How?”

“I just know—I know it’s her. They still have her.” She wheels, eyeing the caravan. “I’d bet anything those bandits are on that road, waiting to ambush caravans just like those three.”

I grasp the basket hilt of the broadsword Daegris Silverbeard gifted me, arching a brow at Titaine. “Feel like doing something gallant?”

“You can be as gallant as you please. I’m going to show those miscreants what comes of stealing from the fetes.”

The spark in Titaine’s eye lights a fire in me—one I’d almost forgotten the feel of. Titaine is a scholar, first and foremost. But when provoked?

Let’s just say I’d much rather they feel the wrath of my fearsome fae queen than me.

Unified, for once, we point our horses back toward the fork in the road, stepping onto The Dragoner’s Road instead. A shiver passes over my skin as Titaine extends a diverting glamour, hiding us from human sight by encouraging mortals to look away and ignore our presence.

Let’s hope all the bandits are mortal.

Even as I think this, a cold, anxious feeling brews in my stomach.

All those years of elven war, I barely slew ten elves on the opposing side—and never on purpose.

It’s not our way, and it’s not something I wish to repeat.

But I cannot escape the feeling that this new age of Duskhold requires me to be much harder of heart, and far more like a human than I’d ever wish to be.

Still, I owe those northern bandits for their earlier treatment of me, and for one other thing:

No one steals from my queen.

We arrive in the midst of chaos.

Boughs crack as the trees seem to come to life, swarming the unsuspecting merchant caravan already beset by two dozen of the bandits. I had no idea there were so many of them—until I realize that the warriors coming from the trees aren’t dressed like the northerners from the Cursed Kingdoms.

Nor are those fully armored warriors leaping from the “merchant caravans” actual merchants.

We’ve just walked into an ambush. Of the bandits.

I have to admit, humans are cleverer than I thought. This is a trap worthy of the fae.

Before Titaine can stop me, I race out from under the reach of her glamour, joining the battle the moment I spot familiar faces in the fray: There are the two women in the quartet who attacked me—and there is that giant blonde man, as tall as I am.

Yet as I draw my glittering sword to engage them in combat, I cannot help but feel disappointed that Vargus is not among them.

These bandits must’ve split off somewhere, the better to plunder more of the Western Cross’s roads.

And then I see him. Their leader. The one whose boot I can still feel on my face, even as I slip my hand into the gaudy basket hilt of Daegris Silverbeard’s plundered broadsword. Vargus wields an axe in each hand, hewing armored enemies as if they wear silk.

“I’ve got her!” Titaine calls. “Auberon!”

My stomach flips, and I almost lose concentration as I catch up to one of the bandits, pulling her off one of the soldiers. Where is Titaine? I have no time to find her as another hulking northern male slices at me with an axe. I am suddenly grateful for the Silverbeard’s broadsword and its reach.

Battle comes all too naturally to me, even with a perfectly honed blade instead of a blunted one. I turn, slice, turn, moving from one obstacle to the next, hoping for a glimpse of Titaine.

I needn’t have worried. A blinding white light brings the clash to a sudden halt. When I can see again, half our enemies—and their

enemies—lie writhing on the ground. Titaine stands in the center of them all, Giselda’s reins in hand, her face serene as they rub at their eyes and clutch at their stomachs, moaning as if the light delivered a devastating blow.

And I think it has. Most of the humans are temporarily blinded, even if they weren’t hit by Titaine’s sun magic.

My lady of the sun is extraordinary.

My pride and relief turn to icy fear in an instant as I see the giant blonde rogue raising a sword as heavy as the one I wield. It’s aimed at Titaine.

I am too far away to reach her. I cannot stop what is about to happen.

I open my mouth to yell a warning instead—and then there’s a sickening crunch as Giselda kicks out, catching the hulking bandit in the chest. Even such a large man can fly through the air, fragile and mortal in the end.

Hooves gallop towards me, but I don’t take my eyes off their leader. Vargus will pay for what he’s done. And he will

return my dagger. Because I can swallow the humiliation, the loss of time, money and supplies. I can even brush past the pain they dealt me; my wounds were healed back in Mircose and Nerania Wood. But what I will not suffer is that he dared to take my father’s dagger. The Blade of Hedril is mine.

That dagger belongs to the kings of dark elves. I won’t leave without it.

The broadsword from Daegris rests lightly in my hand, the blade shining with the silver remnants of an enchantment. Vargus notices its soft glow, his eyes widening—but he isn’t so easily deterred. He comes at me with a wild cry, but this time, I’m ready for him.

I am a warrior king. No chaos, no era, no pains and slights of age will rob me of that. My warrior’s spirit lives on, even as my body weakens.

I will fight this man to the death.

I feint, then slash, but he is quick for a mortal. He slices my forearm as the ornamental butt of my sword meets his temple—it works just as well as a plain one. I grit my teeth against the pain, the blood flowing freely.

He staggers back, momentarily stunned—but not long enough for me to land a blow.

“Auberon!” Titaine calls.

I barely register her voice. There is only this fight, only that dagger in his hand that does not belong there.

I am king here. Not him.

Again, we collide. I take a punch to the gut that sends spittle flying through the air as he drives the Blade of Hedril forward, into my shoulder this time.

I bite down on the urge to cry out, turning the pain into a low growl that causes Vargus to narrow his eyes.

As if he is just now realizing he is not fighting another human mortal.

I score a hit across his thigh as I work to free myself from my own dagger. Unlike the stab wound in my shoulder, the slash I leave him with is too superficial to matter. But no blade cuts like the dagger of the dark elven kings. Even my mail breaks apart, admitting the point of the blade.

Blood pours down my chest, hot and dark.

Inwardly, I’m seething. Do you not know your master? You are my blade, and the blade of my father and father’s father before him!

Am I fallen so low that it no longer recognizes me? Did my ambush and defeat make me unworthy of this, too?

Like wrestlers, we hook arms behind each other’s necks, the rest of our bodies far apart we fight to break free from one another. I am eye to eye with him, and for a moment, his widen in surprise. He sees something in mine that he doesn’t understand.

That dagger does not belong to him. I am your king,

I tell the blade, as if warning it will do any good. I am the one worthy to wield your dark magic. Bow to me, and me alone!

“Give it to me,” I grind out. “You are unworthy of the mark of kings.”

“Never,” is all Vargus manages as he yanks the Blade of Hedril from my shoulder.

Suddenly, he stumbles, and practically falls into the edge of my broadsword. I step back just in time, fearing the bite of my father’s dagger.

I needn’t have worried. It sits in his chest now, buried to the hilt as his eyes bulge. Tendrils of magic like black smoke swarm the blade, then true smoke as it begins to burn. Vargus drops to his knees, bellowing in agony.

I yank the dagger from his chest before it can torture him further. Vargus’s eyes turn cloudy, his face slackening.

I am just as surprised. The dark magic of the Blade of Hedril has slept for more than three centuries. Now it sits in my hand, wreathed in darkness that exerts pressure in the air, nearly popping my ears.

The bandit falls, his eyes closing for the final time.

Daegris’s sword still in one hand, I wipe the blade of my father’s dagger clean on the grass rather than his clothes, to honor my worthy opponent.

When I am through, I search for Titaine, only to find she is already behind me with Giselda. As the soldiers and remaining bandits slowly rise from the ground, she reaches for the Blade of Hedril’s scabbard. She unfastens it quickly, as if afraid to touch our fallen enemy.

Maybe she is. Dark magic still seeps from his wound.

Alarm tightens her face as she stands, sheath in hand. Her eyes dart between me and the blade.

“Auberon,” she says slowly, carefully, “do you know how to stop that?”

At first, I don’t know what she means. Shock and battle fury numb my mind, leaving me slow to notice anything outside the fight.

I barely even register that the soldiers not affected by Titaine’s magic are rounding up the surviving bandits who have not already fled, that the rest of the battle is through.

My heart beats even faster when I see just what it is that Titaine wishes me to stop.

Dark tendrils swarm me like the chaos magic overtaking Nerania Wood, pulsing erratically with the power of untamed magic. But this isn’t the enchantment forged into the Blade of Hedril—though that is here, too.

It’s my

magic.

I could float away from the shock. The era of Duskhold was supposed to herald the end of magic. Instead, it’s the dawning of elven magic’s rebirth. Dark

elven magic. Natural chaos magic.

I’ve never had a day of real magical training in my life, except for how to use enchanted weapons—I was never good enough to warrant further lessons. This particular enchanted blade, however, proves easy to master. I am able to quell the dark flames of the Blade of Hedril with a thought.

Quieting my own magic is much harder. I’ve never had it before. Yet it feels like it’s always been there—and like I don’t know how to make it stop. I squeeze my eyes shut, desperately seeking an answer.

“It’s alright,” Titaine says, her voice soothing and close. “Just listen to me.”

I listen. I’ve never listened to anyone harder.

“There is a well inside you, one so deep it reaches all the way to the sea, then beyond it, to fire, to sea again, all the way to the stars. Lean over that well. Look inside. Look for the stars.”

“There are no stars.” I can feel my body heating by the moment, as if this magic will burn me, too.

“Then seek the darkness between them. Look for where the light doesn’t shine.”

“I can’t—”

But I can. I can do this. How many times did I engage in visual exercise as part of my warrior’s training? I think of one favored by my old master.

The arrow that flies forever, that looses in a perfect line, where no tree, no being, no animal, nor wind nor rain, will ever stop it. The arrow flies forever, everlasting, a bit of our strength that cannot ever be quenched.

Slowly, my body cools.

“Good,” Titaine says, her voice laced with relief. “Good.”

I open my eyes. “I didn’t win that battle. I didn’t—it wasn’t me who killed him. The Blade of Hedril did it. I don’t—I don’t understand.”

“Dear Auberon,” she says, reaching up and cupping my cheek. Without thinking, I turn my head into her palm, squeezing my eyes shut for one long moment. “There is so much more to life than brute strength.”

“Like magic?” My eyes open, finding and focusing only on the soft glow of her face. “I haven’t the faintest clue—”

“You’ll learn. Maybe the elves in the fireswamp can help.”

My heart skips a beat. “We aren’t being pursued by bandits any longer. We can set up camp.”

“Absolutely not. We need to face the Bridge of Miracles well rested, and you need your wounds treated.” She removes her hand. “After what you just did, are you still afraid of a swamp full of elves not liking you?”

“Dark elves,” I correct, “and yes.”

She arches a brow. “Still vain as ever.” But her look lingers, almost teasing me. “Come on, Elf King. Let’s go before the other bandits return.” She offers me a warm smile. “I don’t think the dark elves of this region will turn you away. Not now.”

“And why not?”

“If you could see yourself right now, you’d understand.”

My throat tightens. Does Titaine— respect me

now?

I never thought she would again.

And that, more than the promise of a warm bed and proper healing, is what gets me back on the road to Nox.