Talon the Black

by Melissa Mitchell

  “Repeat…so I know you will remember. Do you understand?”

  She tried to speak but she merely croaked. He struggled to speak, saying both of the names, one after another. She obediently repeated them twice to make sure they would be remembered.

  “Good.” Cyrus exhaled, briefly shutting his eyes. “Say them every day. Say them when you wake in the…in the morning…and before you sleep...Do not forget them!”

  “I—I won’t.”

  “Good. Now make…make your promise…the Unbreakable Promise…so I can die in peace.”

  “The—what?”

  Another fit of coughing took him. Blood spattered up during his fit. It leaked from the corners of his mouth. The poisonous blackness was quickly seeking to consume his face.

  “It will be easy,” he panted. “You need only repeat after me…”

  Again she panicked. “No, Cyrus. Please…”

  “You owe me one favor…remember? I call upon that favor now. Will you go back on your word so easily?”

  She’d forgotten her wager. Never in a million years would she have expected the cost to be so great. It was unfair. She wanted nothing to do with this mission, not after witnessing the Vodar’s brutality. “I am a woman true to my word,” she said, hating herself for it.

  “Cyrus! Hold on brother. Hold on! We are coming for you.”

  Her forehead crinkled. Why was she still hearing voices? “Cyrus, didn’t you…I swear I heard—”

  “You must repeat after me, Claire. Make the Unbreakable Promise.”

  “Okay,” she squeaked, scared of whatever this Unbreakable Promise was. Cyrus shifted his body a little, but not without releasing an anguished cry through clenched teeth. He squeezed her hand so hard, she thought her bones might break.

  Suddenly distracted, Cyrus began muttering and looking at the sky. His eyes were milking over. This was the end. She had seen it happen when her grandfather died. The way Cyrus’s breath rattled, like death, she could hardly bear it. The death rattle, they called it, when a person was close.

  “No,” he muttered. “No. Please! I cannot go with you…I have things…things I must do…my time cannot…I must stay.”

  His behavior was weird, like he was hallucinating. “What—Cyrus what is it?”

  “Daudagher is here! He is here…ready to take me…but I cannot go with him. Not like my brethren. My work is not done. Hurry! We must hurry!” He turned his white eyes upon her, energized by the crucial moment. “Claire? Claire, where are you?”

  “I’m here. I’m here.” She lifted his hand and placed it against her cheek.

  He sighed. “Good…good. Repeat after me. Do you understand?”

  “I—I understand.” She could not refuse him any longer. She owed him a favor.

  “Now repeat…I, Claire…”

  “I, Claire.” She echoed his words.

  “Will transport the stones…and…and the information I carry…directly to the king. I will not speak…not speak of it to a single soul…until my burden is safely delivered. I will not discuss anything that might jeopardize my mission. I will do everything…everything in my power to keep the Stones safe. This promise I make…the Unbreakable Promise…with the power vested within my soul. I will not…I will not rest for all the days of my life…up to my last…until it is fulfilled.” He said all of this with great effort, breathing hard, gasping often, and wheezing much.

  She diligently repeated his words, sentence by sentence. The moment she said the last word she felt a tingle—like a thread of energy—leave her body. Was it magic? Was she bound to her new fate?

  “Thank the gods…” he gasped at last, laying his head back down, turning his white eyes upwards.

  “Cyrus…” She moved her face close to his as she continued to stroke his hair.

  “It was not supposed to be…to be like this.” Cyrus cried. “I wish…I wish there was another way. Alas…” He took a deep shaky breath. “It must be done.”

  “Cyrus! He is dying, Reyr! Reyr, he is dying! Cyrus! Cyrus! Hold on! We are coming!”

  She tried to ignore the crazy shouts in her mind.

  “Claire?” Cyrus whispered, unable to see her. “How…how many did you kill? Three? Four?”

  “Three,” she said.

  “I thought I was saving you…It is you who has saved me.”

  “Cyrus…” She swallowed back a sob.

  “I must go now. I must pass from this body. Help me…Claire, help me to end it.” He lifted his hand, reaching for her face. He groped blindly, so she grabbed it and placed it upon her cheek. “One more favor…I must ask one more favor...”

  “Anything, Cyrus!” Tears rolled down her face like rivers of pain, trying to carve new paths through her skin.

  “One kiss…please…give me but one.”

  His request was far from what she expected. “All—all right.”

  His eyes closed.

  “Just a little longer, Cyrus.” She ignored the voice again, battering against her consciousness. Instead she bent her head down, touching her lips against Cyrus’s. The world around her began to slow. With heightened senses, she was aware of the soft warmth of his skin and the tingles upon hers. She felt the slow exhale from his nose tickle hers. It was almost magical, the deep feelings that resonated within her, like the humming strings of a guitar.

  The bombarding shouts heightened within her mind. “CYRUS! DO NOT LEAVE US!” “NOOOO!” “HOW CAN IT BE?” More cries of sadness and shock followed. The change in their tones, from cries of reassurance to cries of anguish, startled her.

  She opened her eyes and pulled away from Cyrus. Her gaze traced his familiar face. It was still, motionless, empty. Cyrus was dead.

  13

  Kastali Dun

  Talon knew something was wrong. There was a tightness within his heart, gripping him, squeezing him, such that each beat within him felt constrained. He took several deep breaths, trusting the feeling would disappear. It did not. What in the name of the gods was the matter? Never before had he felt this way.

  "If we are all in agreement, we may proceed to the next matter of business." The steward's voice presided over the Lower Council meeting. How he abhorred these matters of formality—council meetings. He would have rolled his eyes, but he refrained. As stale as these procedures were, they were necessary. His people needed to believe there was more than a single decision maker holding the kingdom together. Little did they know...

  "Very well. Let us move on," said the steward. The steward stood next to the chronicler, who sat in a separate, portable desk to his left. The rest of them sat around a large, polished oak table. It sat twenty-two—ten on one side and ten on the other. No one sat at the foot of the table.

  Upon the chronicler's small desk was a large scroll. On this scroll was written each of the meeting's discussion topics. At the end of each discussion, the chronicler scribbled his notes detailing the verdicts reached, tasks to be completed, et cetera.

  Aside from himself and the twenty members of his Lower Council, the steward and chronicler were the only other persons allowed to attend these closed meetings. His six King's Shields did not attend. There was no need for them to. He met with them nightly, filling them in on matters of importance.

  Despite the rumor that much of the decision making was left to the Lower Council, it was the Upper Council who truly controlled the lower. The decisions they made in this room were derived from whispers planted by Bedelth, Cyrus, Jovari, Koldis, Reyr, and Verath.

  "Ahem," the steward cleared his throat, moving things along. "The next matter is..." There was a pause—too long of a pause. He turned slightly in his chair to find the steward regarding him intently.

  "Forgive me, Your Grace, for my unexpected abruptness." The steward began sweating profusely. He looked worried. "The next matter of business pertains to you, Your Grace."

  He waved his hand in annoyance. "Continue on, Mathis. I haven't all day."

  "Very well, Your Grace. There has been tal
k amongst the people."

  And so it goes, he thought to himself. ‘Talk amongst the people’ was a favored way to lead many matters in these council meetings. "What talk, Mathis?" His voice reflected his boredom.

  "Well, Your Grace, with all that is happening…well…the people are worried about…about…" Mathis sighed.

  "Out with it, man."

  Several in the room shifted before Mathis spoke again. "It is the wish of the people that you produce an heir, Your Grace, as you do not yet have one."

  He said nothing at first. Then, slowly, he felt his annoyance transform into the familiar anger he knew so well. Through clenched teeth he responded. "I would be more than happy to produce an heir, except, in case you have failed to notice, I have nowhere to place my seed."

  There were several chuckles around the table. He watched Mathis turn a deep shade of red. The man was practically trembling. He loved that he had such an effect on people. He looked to everyone else—they fell silent under his gaze.

  At last Mathis worked up the courage to speak. "Forgive—forgive me, Your Grace. I do indeed know this. Yet, it is the wish of the people that you take a bride and with her, create an heir."

  It was so easy for the people to forget important facts about the Drengr race. "My people have many wishes." He turned to the rest of his council asking, "Did you know about this?" He met each of their gazes, at last settling on Lord Richard Rosk. He disliked Richard the least, with the exception of Lady Saffra, who was the only female council member.

  Lord Rosk shrugged before replying, "You know how they are, Your Grace." He did not miss the small waver in Richard's voice. "Having no heir makes them nervous. It makes all of us nervous." After saying this, Lord Rosk sat up a little straighter, squaring his shoulders.

  "What say the rest of you?" He looked from one council member to the next. At that moment, they all began voicing their opinions simultaneously, as they generally did. The only member to remain silent was Lady Saffra. Out of everyone, she had the most sense. Ironically, she was the youngest—a child in his eyes. He would always see her as the ten-year-old she was when she first arrived at the keep, despite the fact that she was now a woman grown.

  At last, when he wished to eliminate further remonstrations, he spoke. The table fell silent immediately. "You are all aware, I presume, that I am a Drengr?" He looked from person to person. "Good. And I am sure you are further aware of the customs that govern my race? The customs that govern the monarchy?"

  Still silence. "Also good. I am glad to see that you are not idiots. So then, surely you know that the only life partner a Drengr takes, in other words, the only queen a king takes, is his mate? The king's mate is the making of his destiny, which the gods alone ordain. Has it not been this way for the last fifty thousand years since my forefathers founded this capital?"

  There were several low grumbles, many in agreement with what he said. He held back the most crucial bit of information, which the Council failed to see. Even if he took a bride, one who was not his fated mate, he would fail to impregnate her. That was how Drengr magic worked. Only his fated mate could bear his child.

  "So I ask you this: have the people forgotten our customs?"

  He waited several moments. Once more, Lord Rosk took the lead saying, "They have not forgotten, Your Grace. Your circumstances are special, as we can all agree." Lord Rosk looked around at his fellow council members, who each nodded in turn. "We are falling into desperate times, Your Grace. Surely you cannot argue that. Perhaps it is time to reign in a new era—new customs. Perhaps it is time to abandon the customs of old in favor of preserving your line. If you do not agree with that, then maybe we council members ought to demand a Tournament for the Crown.”

  He sighed. The entire matter was ridiculous, but deep down he knew there was relevance to their worry. He was the first king in the Drengr monarchy to fail at finding his mate. He had tried—for a hundred years he tried. She simply did not exist anywhere in the world. And once he obtained his scars, the hope of finding a woman to love him evaporated. No woman, mate or not, could stand to look at him.

  "Tell me my lords, when I gave my coronation speech, did I not make it clear that I would be the first of my line to rule without a queen? I promised the people that I would do as good a job, if not better, than any king before me. Have I not?"

  "You have done excellently, Your Grace." Many nods of agreement circled the table. "The only problem is, the people to which you gave that promise died two hundred years ago. It is their great grandchildren you now answer to."

  "Yes, yes." He knew that. Humans led such short lives. Perhaps he would play along for now. If hope would make the people happy, then why not? "Very well, my lords. I will consider this desire. And who, which lady specifically, do these grandchildren believe I should take as a wife?"

  "That, Your Majesty, is entirely up to you." Sir Stefan Rosen spoke up, leaning forward in his chair. "I believe that it would be wise to take a woman of noble birth. She should be young, as you will outlive her by many years. Might I be so bold as to suggest—”

  "I know exactly what you ‘might be so bold as to suggest,’ Lord Rosen. Your daughter, Lady Caterina, is the youngest and most eligible when it comes to those families belonging to our beloved council members, is she not?"

  "Aye. She is, Your Majesty. And I am sure many of us cannot deny her beauty, either." Several whispers of agreement resounded.

  He held his tongue. There was little about the wretched woman he found beautiful. By traditional standards she was uncommonly pretty, with symmetric features, dark hair, supple breasts, and a tall figure. However, her selfish personality preceded her. It drowned out the rest. Then again, they were all selfish.

  There were many murmurs of approval at the idea of wedding Lady Caterina. She was a known favorite amongst the nobility. "It would be a most fitting match, Your Grace." Lord Rosk looked at him, stroking his goatee thoughtfully.

  "Aye, Your Grace, a smart match too." Lord Euan Doyle nodded vigorously.

  "Is this truly what you wish?" he asked, looking from one to the other. Every single occupant muttered their agreement, except Lady Saffra. She wanted as little to do with the Council as possible. It was rare for her to attend meetings—only when he required it, as he did today.

  He considered the request. Marrying for the pure sake of producing an heir had never before crossed his mind. Obviously, no heir would be produced. But perhaps it would keep the people off his back for a short while. Then he would be free to tackle the more important matters at hand.

  If it was Lady Caterina he was forced to wed, he would be stuck with her longer than a purely human bride, given that she was a Mage in training. However, even the Magoi did not live forever. He shuddered at the thought of having Lady Caterina around. A more unpleasant companion couldn’t be had. At least he took a measure of solace in knowing she would have to see his scarred face every day.

  "It would make the people happy, Your Grace." The steward stepped forward. "The gods only know the kind of unrest we are facing. Perhaps the prospect of a wedding might bring renewed excitement to the kingdom."

  Excitement…he had enough of that. Every day felt like diving head-first towards the ground with his wings closed tightly to his body, only to pull up in the final instant. The last thing he needed was more excitement. Curse Cyrus for making him worry so!

  Again his heart tightened, and his heightened sense of unrest plagued him. He wished to be done with this meeting, but there was still one final matter of importance to discuss—the only important matter.

  "What say you, Your Grace?"

  "Very well, Mathis." He would do whatever necessary to be done with this stifling room and these stifling people. “Charlan, you may jot down in your chronicles that I will consider the matter of taking a noble woman to wed—Lady Caterina if it will please you, Lord Rosen."

  Lord Rosen was like an excited toad. His chubby cheeks were rounded and plump as he smiled widely, nodding ferventl
y up and down, so hard that his head bobbled like one experiencing a spasm. He half expected the man to begin croaking.

  "Very well. You will have my final answer regarding the matter in a fortnight. May we move on to our final matter, Mathis?"

  "Aye, Your Grace. We may."

  "Good." He looked back at the Council, diving straight in. "It has come to my attention that Cyrus is in danger." There were whispers around the table. Of course, no one knew what had befallen his beloved Shield, but it was time to reveal all, or suffer the criticisms of the people for withholding valuable information.

  "Over a fortnight ago, as you are aware, Cyrus departed the capital. I told you he was traveling to the North on business, but I was not wholly forthcoming regarding his mission."

  The room remained silent. Lady Saffra fidgeted, everyone else sat stock still.

  "I did not send Cyrus to Northedge. Instead, I sent him on a secret mission to obtain a weapon within the Gable Forest. Unfortunately, it would seem that his mission has ended in failure. He has disappeared from our world and traveled through the Kengr Gate, into the Beyond."

  Sounds of outrage and disbelief broke out around the table. It took him some time to calm everyone down. At last, he handed the discussion over to Lady Saffra. As he did, a thought occurred to him. No one suggested her as a viable option for a wife. She held higher titles than all of them, despite coming from a lower birth. Yet none mentioned her as a candidate for marriage. It made him curious: Why was the Council so supportive of Lady Caterina? Had Lord Rosen bribed the members?

  Lady Saffra began her speech. “Yesterday I conducted a Scry. I searched for Cyrus and found him.” She proceeded to describe what she had seen. When she finished, the same shock and surprise circulated the table.

  "I believe you have not been fully truthful with us, Your Grace,” said Lord Rosk. "Tell us of this weapon you mentioned."

  There was no sense in hiding it now. Given that his council members were sworn to secrecy, nothing they discussed left the room. However, he knew that tongues liked to wag, and no man was perfect. He especially knew that Lord Rosen would immediately run to Lady Caterina and inform her of the news. The prospects of marriage would greatly thrill her, even though he had not yet agreed.