Talon the Black

by Melissa Mitchell

  “I was cornered at the edge of the kingdom. And within me, I had little strength left to fight. The pursuit of my assailants was relentless. Never have I flown so far at such great speeds without rest.” He sighed and leaned back in his chair, running his left hand through his thick, curly hair.

  “Their master ordered them to kill me and retrieve the Stones, so they do as he commands. They will stop at nothing. My being alive is a threat to Kane’s very existence. It is a risk he cannot afford to take. His efforts are done to remain in the shadows, until the time is right, until he is ready. Only then will he strike and reveal his identity. Woe to those in his path when he does.” He shut his eyes, squeezing them together until she saw little creases in his skin.

  “So you’re telling me that no one else knows about Kane? Only you? You didn’t warn anyone? But that means...” The entire kingdom was in trouble.

  “No one will know what strikes them when it does. As unfortunate as it is, Kane’s first planned attack, the one I saw in his mind, is intended for the city of Belnesse.” He took a deep breath. “Kane intends…” He shook his head and pursed his lips.

  “But then, why didn’t you warn anyone. Why—”

  “Distance, Claire. I can only send my voice so far.”

  “What—what do you mean?”

  “We Drengr are telepathic.”

  Her eyes widened, though it shouldn’t have come as a surprise, considering everything else. A new question struck her. “Cyrus, you said that the Vodar would stop at nothing.” She hated saying their name. It left her stomach twisting. “You said they would follow their master’s commands, and that Kane would do anything necessary to get the Stones from you, even kill you.”

  He gazed at her in silence, waiting for her to complete her thoughts.

  “Why then did his minions disappear after hurting you? Why didn’t they just simply kill you then and there?”

  “Did I not ask you that same question, Claire?”

  “Well, yes, but I thought maybe you might have worked out an answer by now.”

  “Hardly. They will be back. I will die by their hand, I can feel it in my heart.”

  Die…The word echoed in her mind and her stomach plummeted. “Surely someone will come for you.” She tried to resurrect their former argument.

  Cyrus pushed his finished dinner plate away from him before propping his arms up on the table. “No one is coming, Claire. It would seem that my part in this tale is nearly over.”

  A strange look came over him. She had seen it before. He was fighting an internal battle again. At long last, he spoke, “Is it wrong of me to withhold my insight for fear of voicing the truth?”

  “What—what do you mean? What insight?”

  He sighed. “What I mean is, I believe that I have discerned the next turn this story must take. Only, I am afraid of the path.” He lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “Terrified, to be honest.”

  Her eyebrows pulled together as she scowled at him, trying to piece together his convoluted statements. “Cyrus...”

  “I think the time has come. I must share with you what I know—what I believe. I hope you are ready to hear it.”

  “Ready? Cyrus, you’re scaring me.”

  He finally looked up at her. “I believe…” He reached around his neck to untie the leather pouch, which he held out to her even though she made no move to take it. “I believe that it is you who must take up my burden. You must protect the Dragon Stones and keep them from Kane. My journey ends here. I will never make it back to my kingdom alive.”

  9

  Kastali Dun

  Saffra gazed upon the dream world: A woman stood before her facing a white beast, a wild dragon like those she had seen burning the city of Belnesse. This woman was no ordinary being. She was covered in shimmery, translucent cloth. The gown was of a single layer, and did little more than hide her feminine parts. Beneath the fabric were markings that glowed with blue and green radiance; they scrawled across the woman’s skin, swirling and twisting like possessive snakes, winding their way around her arms and legs. This woman was a Sprite of the forest.

  The beast she faced was angry: It pawed the ground and snorted with fury, offering forth its challenge. This did not frighten the proud woman. She stood before the dragon with shoulders squared, and a face of granite, displaying overwhelming confidence and strength. Hers was the calm collect of one possessing much experience in life.

  In a brief flash, the dragon let forth a torrent of flame. She immediately shielded herself with magic. The flames distorted around her body. When the flames abated, the woman opened her mouth. From within flowed the purest voice Saffra had ever heard. The Sprite began to sing a beautiful song, a hypnotic song. It was an incant of sorts, but different from any kind Saffra knew; she felt the power of the woman’s words wash over her. The dragon felt the Sprite’s power too. It gave a mighty roar, protesting. After all, it knew of her intentions. When it tried to move, to escape, it found itself held to the ground by an invisible force. The dragon was ensnared.

  The woman continued, her words weaving the necessary magic to defeat the beast. On and on she sang, longer than any bard could. Not once did her voice waver, nor did it grow hoarse. Every note held perfection, as if it were a song known by the deepest depths of her soul. She was glad to sing it, for joy reflected upon her face even in the midst of danger.

  At last the beast grew still, and then, as if it its skin had become liquid stone, a ripple flowed across it, hardening its scales into marble. It would move no more. The woman had seen to that. The stone body would forever be a reminder to those who opposed her might.

  Saffra awoke the next morning with little recollection of the dream, though she tried to remember it. After breaking her fast in the dining hall, she made her way to the Grand Mage’s quarters, as she did every day. The Grand Mage lived in the easternmost wing of the Great Keep. All Society elites resided there, and only the most powerful Magoi trained with them.

  She generally passed much of her time studying with Grand Mage Marcel, mornings and afternoons. She had very few friends in the keep: Most of the women were too supercilious for her tastes. She was plenty happy to be in Marcel’s easy presence. To her, he was like a grandfather.

  “I had the most peculiar dream last night, Marcel,” she announced. They sat in his study—which was akin to a small library—each quietly working on their own tasks: he a long manuscript, she a book for light reading. Marcel arched an eyebrow as she said this, looking up at her with curiosity. Were she anyone else, he would have feigned interest. However, she was not simply anyone, she was the king’s royal prophetess: Her dreams held meaning.

  “I cannot discern its meaning,” she said, “for it has become vague.”

  “Has it given you reason to worry?” Marcel asked, his blue eyes sparkling with interest.

  “Well, no, but it has increased my curiosity.”

  “Oh-ho. Is that not a good thing? For when we are curious, we learn,” He clasped his hands together in glee. “What of it can you recall, my dear?”

  She considered his question. The only aspect that remained clear was a white dragon-like statue. It sat upon a hill overlooking other hills, which overlooked a plane, surrounded by a sea of yellowed grasses. The statue looked so terribly real, as if a genuine dragon had simply fallen asleep, never to move again. Surely it was nothing more than carved stone, but why did her heart say otherwise? She told him all of this, hoping it would make sense.

  “Ah-ha.” Marcel smiled widely. “I know of that which you speak. Its history is highly debated, as are most occurrences long past. The great monument lies amidst the rolling hills of Kengr, near the Kengr Gate. Most call it the Marble Dragon.” His voice sang the words as they rolled off his tongue. The Marble Dragon—the name did sound familiar. “I believe there is a legend about it. If I am not mistaken, the story lies within the tome I lent you.”

  “The large one about myths and legends of Dragonwall?”

>   “The very same.”

  “I have found its accounts useful already.” The book was an integral part of her nightly routine, for she dearly loved learning the lore and history of Dragonwall. She had become something of an aspiring historian since coming to the capital many years ago.

  Marcel merely smiled back at her before returning to his work. It was so like him to stimulate her curiosity before sending her on a hunt. Rarely did he provide answers to her questions; rather, he encouraged the individual pursuit of knowledge.

  When she revisited the Grand Mage’s study after the mid-day meal, she brought the tome with her. She was eager to begin her quest. Unfortunately, Marcel had other plans for the afternoon. In truth, he appeared troubled, stooping more than usual, weighed down by invisible burdens.

  “We must begin a new phase of your training,” he said almost immediately. Something had happened while she was away. Whatever it was warranted the change in his mood. His declaration surprised her: Wasn’t her training already complete? Her lessons with the Magoi commenced the previous year, and although she still trained with Cyrus, it was not in general magic working.

  “When Lady Lacara was prophetess for the king, she had an ability to call upon information and events at will. She discovered many answers. Scrying, I believe she called it, though I do not know the true name.”

  Lady Lacara was the royal prophetess of Dragonwall long before Saffra came along. There was only ever one at a time. Lacara served two kings: King Talon’s grandfather and King Talon’s father. Unfortunately, her old age eventually took her; she died shortly after King Talon’s father, King Tallek, was crowned. After that, Dragonwall went nearly four hundred years without another Seer.

  “Though it took her many years to master the art of Scrying,” said Marcel, “her skill greatly aided the monarchy.”

  “Why have I never heard of this until now?”

  “My dear, you have numerous concerns to weigh you down.” Marcel still saw her as a child. “Cyrus and I both agreed that it would be best to refrain from this higher form of magic until you were ready. It would seem, however, that the king feels differently.”

  “The king? So he is behind this sudden change in your mood.”

  The king had visited Marcel during the midday meal, agitated and looking for answers. “He is worried about Cyrus,” Marcel said. “If you can but see a glimpse of Cyrus and reassure King Talon that his men are alive, I can only imagine the relief it would provide.”

  “Then perhaps he will do something about Belnesse,” she muttered. She was bitter over the king’s response to her vision. He was too preoccupied to appear concerned. She expected shock, but instead he challenged her, doubted her, and named the other matters more important to him: growing threats along the coastlines, Gobelin unrest in the east, Vodar sightings in the North, Cyrus missing.

  “Belnesse, my dear? What of it?” Marcel brought her back to the present, looking surprised. She explained her previous vision of Belnesse, telling him how it was burned to the ground, and how all the people there died. She made careful efforts to describe Wrath and his Ice Clan of dragons.

  “Wild Dragons, you say?” Marcel stroked his white beard. She nodded, and his scowl deepened. At last he said, “The king has many cares, my dear, many cares. Let us focus on Cyrus for now.” It only frustrated her further. Would no one help those of the North?

  “Are you ready to begin your training?”

  “Very well.” She sighed. “I am always willing to learn, and happy to help where help is needed.”

  Scrying at will was a form of meditation. Marcel went through the technique, detailing each step. It required a significant amount of concentration, an empty mind, and a single question. Though how such a thing could be possible—to focus one’s mind on a singular thought—was beyond her. When it was time, he retrieved a scent stick from his cabinet.

  Scent sticks were hardly a thing of magic, though they were often used in magical undertakings. For the most part, they were a popular way to drive away horrid smells occupying a room, especially in the Great Keep. One could ignite the end then place it in a holder. Its fiery red tip burned slowly down to its end, releasing its scent and leaving a small pile of ash in its wake. Most scent sticks lasted for hours and could be very overpowering. As a matter of personal preference, she disliked them for the headaches they caused.

  “Do you remember the magical properties of the acacia tree?” Marcel asked her. She nodded. Acacia promoted the mind. Its blossoms smelled like sweet jasmine, and always left her craving honey.

  “The easiest way to begin Scrying, especially in the beginning, is with the scent of acacia.” He lit the stick and placed it before her. “Now focus your mind, and do as I have explained.”

  His instructions were nearly impossible to follow, because her question kept changing. She was supposed to focus on only one, yet when she asked the gods, “Is Cyrus safe?” she saw nothing but the backs of her eyelids. She helplessly changed her words, “Is Cyrus alive?” “Where is Cyrus?” “What happened to Cyrus?” “Why did he not return as planned?”

  Each inquiry was as fruitless as the next. Hours passed in failure. She took it personally, as an indication that she was not good enough, not powerful enough to do what was needed.

  “It took Lady Lacara years,” Marcel reminded her. “I did not expect results on your first try.” She did not miss the disappointment in his voice.

  That night she lay awake, tossing and turning. Her sleeping habits had dramatically worsened since her vision about the Dragon Stones. With each passing night, she feared sleep and the sights it would bring. When her frustration overpowered her at last, she lit a candle and brought forth an acacia scent stick.

  Making herself comfortable on the floor, she began the rigmarole of Scrying. She emptied her mind of all distracting thoughts, including her worry over Cyrus. She then focused her efforts upon a single question, whilst allowing the overpowering scent of acacia envelop her.

  “What happened to Cyrus?” she repeated over and again. All else was nothingness. The scent of the acacia conquered her senses, whisking her away from the real world, surrounding her with jasmine and honey.

  She sat long into the wee hours of the morning, focusing on a single train of thought, desiring an answer within the depths of her very being. The gods must have listened, for just when she was near giving up, the blackness of her mind disappeared, replaced abruptly by a different kind of darkness:

  She saw the nighttime sky, illuminated by a full moon, pricked with glittering stars. There was Cyrus, his draconic body pearlescent white, gleaming as brightly as the moon. Her sudden joy at seeing him was replaced by fear. Cyrus was surrounded by a trail of fire like the tail of a comet. He was in danger, falling away from the stars, away from the moon, spinning and twisting as he plummeted towards the ground.

  This was not Dragonwall—this world she found him in. Her stomach churned. This was a hostile place!

  With a sickening crunch, Cyrus struck the ground. She cried out, but no sound came. She needed to help him—to save him.

  Suddenly, she was whisked away. She faced two black pillars made of onyx. This was the Kengr Gate, the portal Cyrus used.

  Once again, her view changed. She beheld a mountain hold with jagged ramparts, crumbling with age. It was an eerie fortress, long abandoned. Surrounding it were hundreds of dragons, the very same she had seen before, swooping and darting, catching fish in the lake below.

  Red, evil eyes looked back at her. She saw the thief. He haunted her visions again. She cringed, averting her gaze.

  The scene disappeared. The evil face was replaced by a calming one, as familiar as her own. She saw the same woman she had seen so many times before, with golden hair and green eyes. And then it was all gone.

  Once more, she saw only the blackness of her eyelids. Her heart pounded as she struggled to breathe. Cyrus was in danger!

  Without dressing, she grabbed a robe to cover her bare legs th
en fled her chambers. She raced through the keep, stumbling in the darkness as her bare feet slapped the cold flagstones. Breathless, she came to a halt before the king’s chambers. It was time to tell him what she’d seen, and he wasn’t going to like it.

  10

  Kastali Dun

  Saffra was taken before the king, albeit after much quarreling with his guards. Their reluctance did little more than fuel her agitation. She was already plenty distraught to begin with.

  "Your coming troubles me, Lady Saffra.” The king abandoned his task to gaze at her with questioning eyes.

  "Your Grace,” she said, struggling to speak. “I apologize for disturbing you. I know your burdens are great.” She glanced down at his desk. A role of parchment stretched across the desk’s surface.

  “My burdens are great, Lady Saffra. And it seems you wish to bring me another.”

  She afforded him a weak nod before hugging her arms to her body, wrapping them tightly around her midriff. Her fear left her chilled. She began to shake like a cold puppy, trembling violently.

  “Gods above, Lady Saffra!” King Talon rushed to his feet and retrieved a cloak from the corner of his study. He threw it about her shoulders before guiding her to the extra chair at his desk. He then resumed his place on the other side. “Now, tell me what you have seen.”

  “I saw Cyrus, Your Grace.” Her voice was no louder than a whisper.

  “You saw him! He is alive then?” King Talon sat rigid in his chair.

  “I do not know. I think…” She faltered. Bearing bad news was no easy task, especially considering how much the king loved his Shields. They were his only family. The moment he perceived her hesitance, King Talon’s face fell; she had not come to bring him hope.

  “Say what you came to say, my lady. It is not wise to worry me.”