Everything she heard was of little importance, but still, she listened. This ability was the one thing that she could use to her advantage. Despite the growing headache these voices gave her, she was determined to listen, just in case some snippet of information proved useful.
Before long, the vast expanse of Kastali Dun stretched out before them. Behind it, the dark blue sea stretched on and on until it met the horizon. Located upon a rocky outcropping was the biggest castle she had ever seen—the Great Keep of Kastali Dun. It was the largest keep in Dragonwall. Its tall ramparts were topped with spires and turrets that starkly dominated the skyline. The sight of it left her heart pounding. She was both impressed and afraid.
Trumpets sounded in the distance. It was an announcement of their impending arrival. The proclamation was dreadfully beautiful, and it spoke in many ways to her heart.
Reyr increased his pace, and she leaned into him for comfort, placing her cheek against his warm, scaled neck. When they arrived, her eyes swept over the city, taking it in. It was so many times larger than Weldon—unfathomably large.
She discerned the wisps of smoke rising from chimneys, and below the smoky tendrils sat a sea of rooftops. They were tightly packed together. In between the buildings, narrow streets gave way to wider ones. These snaked their way up to the keep.
She gasped. Before her eyes, Drengr swooped in around them. The sight left her breathless and awed. It was a rainbow of colors, and each sparkled brilliantly in the late afternoon sun. She had never seen so many at once, and nearly all of them had Riders.
It took a matter of moments before they were surrounded. At least one hundred strong, the Drengr and their Riders assembled into V-formations as they escorted them over the city. Some of the Riders looked at Cyrus’s body strapped to Jovari, as if confirming that he was truly dead. Most looked at her instead. She saw their accusing eyes—their hateful eyes. It left an uneasy feeling in her gut.
Ignoring all the telepathic speculation shooting from Drengr to Drengr, she kept her face forward, determined to stay strong. On the inside, she felt herself wither up in terror.
You are strong. Do not let their misguided words steer you off course…
It had been a while since her conscience offered advice. Perhaps it was best to listen. What if I am too weak? She dared to ask.
Be brave. It was you who saved me, remember? You are strong…
The returning thought felt like a punch to the gut. Those words—they were the same ones Cyrus said just before dying. “Cyrus?” she cried, far louder than she intended. “Cyrus?” The voice in her mind did not answer.
“That’s it, Claire,” she whispered to herself. “You’re losing your mind now. Your cracking under all the pressure.” She needed to pull herself together if she was going to get through this. Shaking her head rapidly, trying to clear it, she turned her attention back to the city.
The keep loomed up before them, and Reyr began to descend. Then, with each bit of altitude lost, her heart beat faster and faster. She tried to ignore it, focusing her eyes upon the castle.
The dark rocky edifice looked almost green. Thin sheets of velvety moss from centuries of accumulation blanketed it, giving the walls their eerie sheen. This place was old, very old. She could feel its magic too, ancient and powerful, as it radiated towards her and tingled across her skin. What an odd sensation it created, almost like charged air before a thunderstorm. It even gave her goosebumps, despite the summer heat.
All too soon, Reyr landed in a courtyard of the keep on its lowest level. He was followed shortly thereafter by Jovari and Koldis. Everywhere she looked, hordes of people gathered about. She hated all of them for their desire to gloat. Didn’t they have better things to do?
She dismounted gracefully. Her limbs were shaking, but she did not let that show. The moment her feet touched solid ground, guards latched on to her arms. The metal of their armored gloves was harsh against her sunburnt skin.
“Reyr!” she cried, struggling against them. They pulled her away. Her voice was drowned out by the booing of the crowd. “Reyr!” she cried again, but still her voice was lost. The guards were forcing her away from her traveling companions. She didn’t have the chance to say goodbye.
She discerned the words from the crowd—words that made her stomach churn and her eyes water. “Murderer,” they cried. “Traitor!” a voice screeched as she walked by.
Slap. Something wet hit her face, but she couldn’t wipe it off. The guards were holding too tightly to her arms. When she looked down at her shirt, she saw what looked like tomato juice. Smack. More things were thrown at her, more harsh words were uttered at her passing.
She had just enough time to look over her shoulder before entering a shadowy corridor. Reyr was transforming into his human form, preparing to untie Cyrus from Jovari’s back. Above them, Riders and their Drengr circled like vultures. Koldis took flight to join them. She had been all but forgotten by her traveling companions. That hurt the most.
As a last resort, she began to chant words of encouragement under her breath. It was difficult to find her courage in the face of adversity, harder still to maintain fortitude as the guards pulled her away from the only familiar thing she had left in this world: Reyr, Jovari, and Koldis.
They escorted her into the keep and said nothing. “Where are you taking me?” she asked, even though she already knew.
The keep’s dark walls were foreboding and unfamiliar. She was rushed down a series of stairways and through many more eerie corridors. This place was like a maze. Even if she attempted escape, she would never find her way out. The lower they went, the deeper her breaths became. Gulping air into her lungs, she did her best to keep from bursting into tears. She was determined to stay strong, lest these men run straight to the king and tell them what a blubbering crybaby she was.
At last, she was hastily thrown in a cell. Just as she scrambled to her feet and turned, the door slammed in her face. “Manners might be nice!” she shouted at the guard’s retreating footsteps. Silence was the only response she was given.
She stood motionless, staring at the closed door. Minutes passed by, and still she did nothing. The entire experience left her too shocked to respond.
Eventually, when her mind got a hold of itself, she came out of her daze. The guards hadn’t bothered to confiscate any of her belongings. She was still wearing her backpack and the Dragon Stones were still safely tucked in her bra. That was lucky.
Coming to her senses, she wiped some of the muck and mud off her face and arms, getting it all over her hands. It stank. So did she. At that very moment, she would have given anything for a bath.
She examined her foreign surroundings the way a caged animal might. She removed her flashlight from her backpack. The batteries were nearly dead, so she tapped it against her palm several times before light blazed around her. The cell was small, maybe half the size of her bedroom at home. It had stone walls, no windows, and a dirt floor. It was completely empty, except for a small pot which she knew to be a chamber pot. She groaned in disgust.
Venturing to the corner, she sat down. Her nerves snapped. Like an upset child, she burst into tears. Screw strength! Screw courage! Screw her vow that she wouldn’t cry anymore. What she needed now more than anything was a good, long cry. It was the only relief she was going to get here. Her body shook with great sobs, her eyes blurred and her nose ran.
What had she done to deserve this?
After a while, she calmed down. Her tears abated and she relaxed a little, coming to terms with her position despite the harshness of it. What else could she do but accept where she was? She removed the Dragon Stone pouch from her bra, where it was becoming too uncomfortable, and tucked it safely into the pocket of her jeans. From her backpack, she pulled out her flannel bedroll and spread it on the floor beneath her. Trying to keep it clean, she used the corner to blow her nose and wipe herself off. Even still, she was exceedingly filthy.
There was nothing to do but sit and wai
t. She longed to know what was taking place outside. What special respects would the kingdom pay to honor Cyrus’s bravery? She knew for certain that none of them would understand what he had been through—not like she did. She was the one beside him in his final moments.
What hurt the most was that she would not get to honor him the way Dragonwall’s citizens did. They had excluded her from the funeral and all its festivities, confining her to a cage. She wanted to be there when they set his body aflame, when he passed into the afterlife. It was so unfair!
What was even more unfair was that she would be stuck in her cell for three days—three long days until the grief period was over—three long days of confinement in the darkness. She would save the batteries in her flashlight and only use it when absolutely necessary. Knowing what was to come left her anxious. Perhaps the cell was a better alternative than what she would soon face. She thought about the king. His voice was scary enough. What would he be like in person? A monster most likely, and for that, she was terrified.
34
Kastali Dun
Saffra aggressively pulled an arrow from her quiver. Though her movements were well-practiced, today they betrayed her true feelings. One familiar with her would have easily noticed that she was not herself. Fortunately, most were still gathered in the lower courtyard to witness the highly-anticipated arrival of the king’s Drengr Fairtheoir.
She had been on edge since that morning, but now in the aftermath of the city’s trumpets, her nerves were unbearable. Rule breaking was quite unlike her. Moreover, the idea of deceit was wholly foreign. But what choice did she have?
Whoosh. She let her arrow fly, squinting against the setting sun as she followed its arc to the target. Thud. It met its mark. Whoosh. She repeated the motion. Thud. Over and again she drew and fired. Whoosh—thud—whoosh—thud. The sound was soothing. In times like these, she was grateful for the sport.
With every shaft dispensed, she felt calmer and more collected. Archery was her tonic. It allowed her to gather her thoughts and think clearly. Moreover, it was the only skill she possessed beyond her abilities with magic.
Although sunset approached, it was still warm. She found it refreshing to feel the sun’s heat upon her face. The air was not stale as it was indoors. As of late, venturing into the open was both rare and difficult. Since the death of Cyrus, she often tucked herself away within her chambers. Too many questions followed her footsteps. Be it handmaiden, kitchen wench, or noble, everyone within the keep had an insatiable desire to discover the scraps of truth behind the free-flowing gossip feeding their appetites.
Unfortunately, an open window was no longer good enough. Despite her desire to avoid the inevitable, she could not stay locked away forever. With so much happening within the keep, this was the best way to pass the time before nightfall, for nightfall was when her mission would commence.
Her plan was not long in the making, and rather risky, but it was necessary. That morning during court, the king announced the latest news: The woman named Claire would be thrown in a cell within the dungeons. “Put her where she belongs!” many cried in response. Their shouts rang through the throne room. Others called for death, and worse. She lurked in the shadows, shrouded beneath a silken cloak. In those moments, she was ashamed to be a part of the crowd.
After hushing the onlookers, the king continued his relay. “In the dungeons, this woman will be out of our way. We must honor Cyrus.” A cheer echoed from the walls. “This is my command to you: Clear your minds from the distractions she has brought upon us. Turn your attention where it is deserved.”
“To Cyrus!” many cried, as a frenzy took over. “To Cyrus,” they chanted. It was more than she could take—using Cyrus as an excuse to behave inhospitably towards this young woman. Finding her way through the crowd, she crept from the hall. More cheers followed in her wake. She did her best to ignore them.
How could the people be so cruel towards a woman they knew nothing about? They were hasty in their judgement. Grief and anger were fickle fiends, but it was not the people she truly blamed. If the king would not speak to Claire then she would, and that meant she needed a plan, but going behind the king’s back scared her. Admittedly, her own selfish desires were stronger than her fear, for it was Claire’s face that haunted her mind, and she was determined to know why.
Walking over to the target, she removed her arrows and returned to her chambers. “My lady, welcome back.” Jocelyn greeted her. “Desaree will be along shortly with our evening tea. Shall I ready your gown for the procession?” The gown Jocelyn spoke of was a special one. The dressmaker, Lady Rosanne, had made it for her from a light gray velvet. It matched the tunics to be worn by the king’s Drengr Fairtheoir. Like their attire, her dress had a silver dragon’s head embroidered near the left shoulder—the king’s sigil.
“Thank you, Jocelyn, please do, and the matching cloak as well.”
“But my lady, it will be too hot.”
“Never mind that,” she said. No one could know of her plans, not even Jocelyn. “Jocelyn?”
“Yes, my lady?”
“Tonight I would like for you to attend the procession with Desaree.”
Jocelyn hesitated before bowing her head. She then returned her attention to Saffra’s gown. Many ladies felt they needed accompaniment no matter where they went. Handmaidens were accustomed to following their mistresses around, but Jocelyn understood that Saffra was different. Saffra often chose to do things on her own. Therefore, her handmaiden did not find the request abnormal. Without Jocelyn around, she could easily sneak off, and what better night than tonight?
Jocelyn helped her into her gown. The fabric was soft and soothing. Regardless of how soft it was, she could not breathe. “Must they be so tight?” she cried. “Can you not loosen the laces?”
“You complain every time, my lady. And every time my response is the same. No. The gown is meant to be this way.”
“Oh, all right then. Thank you.”
Sitting down, she took up the large tome lent to her by the Grand Mage. For days she had thumbed through it, reading the stories one at a time, hoping to arrive at the tale Marcel spoke of—the one about the Marble Dragon. Her scrying lessons with Marcel left her exhausted, so there was little time to research her dream, and it was slow work.
As she waited for her evening tea, she flipped through the pages, skipping all the narratives she had not yet read. Much to her frustration, none of the titles contained the key words for which she searched. When she reached the final page, she sighed loudly and began again, this time digging deeper until she found what she was looking for.
“I found it Jocelyn!” she said, calling her handmaiden over.
“How Fright the White met his downfall,” Jocelyn read, albeit shakily. She was still learning. Most handmaidens did not read. Saffra smiled. Fright the White was a fitting name.
“Shall I read it aloud?” she asked. Jocelyn nodded, taking a seat opposite her. There was an epigraph and an authors’ note. She started with those first.
Pale as snow his scales do gleam,
It seems they will forever,
For cursed he was by one supreme,
A most challenging endeavor.
Now he rests in grassy plains,
Entombed by solid stone,
For only blood can break these chains,
To free him from his own.
“What do you suppose that means?” Jocelyn asked.
“Well, it is obvious is it not?”
Jocelyn shook her head. “I do not understand the ‘Only blood can break these chains’ part.”
“I think it means that someone of the blood, I am not sure which blood, could possibly break the spell to free Fright from his stone form.”
Jocelyn’s jaw dropped. “But my lady, is he not a dragon?”
“Aye. A dangerous dragon at that.” She was too eager for the story to ponder the poem further. With gusto, she began reading the authors’ note:
“The fol
lowing is an interpretation of a tale disclosed by the Sprites of the Gable Forest, as told by their bards. To understand this legend, we recommend the reader first familiarize themselves with the stories of Rage.”
“Who is Rage?” Jocelyn asked.
“Now Jocelyn, we may never get through this story if you continue to ask questions.” She said this with a kind smile before she began to read. “The legend goes as follows: There was once a powerful dragon by the name of Fright, for he was truly frightful as his name suggests. Most commonly he became known as Fright the White, for his scales were that of moonstone. It is said that many onlookers mistook him for a full moon during dark skies. Thus the saying, ‘Beware of the traveling moon’ became common in stories told to scare children.”
“I have heard of that!” Jocelyn cried. “My momma used to read me stories about the ancient dragons.”
Saffra smiled before continuing. “Fright the White was the leader of the Storm Clan, one of the many clans to pledge allegiance to Rage. He was desperate to prove himself and eventually, he secured a most prestigious position in Rage’s hierarchy. As his right hand, this general carried out many heinous crimes against the peoples of Dragonwall. Next to Rage, he was the most feared.
“For a time, the two of them coexisted quite well, sharing their love of bloodthirst. But there came a day when Rage’s hold upon Dragonwall began to weaken. Near the end of his campaign, many of Rage’s sworn clans were defeated by the newly formed Drengr. For Rage, the need to protect his claim to kingship grew dire, so much so, that he betrayed Fright.
“During this time the mighty Sprite queen, Queen Isabella, had been working hard to track down the last of Rage’s supporters. To save his own hide, Rage and his Ice Clan betrayed the Storm Clan, resulting in the brutal deaths of all their clan members, except for Fright. Isabella had no intention of killing Rage’s evil general. Her intentions were far worse.”
Talon the Black Page 27
