Talon the Black

by Melissa Mitchell

  “Of course not!” he claimed eagerly. “There is one more.”

  “I’ll have it then.” The poor little man was trying so hard. It irked him to see her stand her ground.

  “You are charged with the murder of Lord Cyrus, a beloved King’s Shield and advisor to the king. How do you plead?”

  This one was obvious. “I plead not guilty,” she replied, hiding her irritation. As she said it, she met the king’s eyes. They were cold and accusing. It left an uneasy feeling within the pit of her stomach. After everything, he still didn’t believe her. What was worse, he looked as though he might kill her himself.

  Why the anger? Had he expected a different response? Of course he had. He wanted her to admit to killing Cyrus. It infuriated him that she did not.

  The steward stepped down from the dais. “Not guilty, you say?” He made a show of his skepticism. “We shall see, won’t we?” Snapping his fingers, the steward called forth a man who emerged from the crowd. This man carried a long object wrapped in cloth. Her blood ran cold. She’d forgotten about the Vodar short sword left behind by the single Vodar who brought about Cyrus’s demise. The man unwrapped his bundle for all to see and handed it to the steward, who was careful not to touch the blade.

  “What do you make of this?” he asked.

  Cyrus! She called, desperate for his help. What was she supposed to do now?

  “Well?” prompted the steward.

  Cyrus was silent.

  “It isn’t mine.”

  “Isn’t it, though? It was in your possession when you were discovered. Reyr has confirmed that. Hmm...” The steward feigned thoughtfulness as he looked over the blade, studying it. He would find no clues. “Well, if it is not yours, if there is another to whom it belongs, let it be known. An accomplice perhaps?”

  There was only the Vodar. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came. The promise would never allow her to say the truth with such an audience. The steward was pleased to see her lack of argument. Letting him win riled her. It wasn’t fair.

  Better to appear ignorant. The Nasks cannot know…

  “If you cannot explain this sword’s existence, you may as well claim it. Own up to your crime.” The steward looked over his shoulder at the Lower Council. In his mind, her silence was evidence enough to convict her. He was met with many nods of agreement.

  “It isn’t mine!” she cried for a second time looking now at the Lower Council. Who did she hate more, the steward or the king? The Lower Council members were whispering amongst themselves, looking smug. Saffra alone remained silent.

  A man from the Council abruptly stood. The king looked over, acknowledging the council member’s desire to speak. “The Council has already come to a majority agreement; if this woman cannot explain the sword, then we are forced to accept it as hers. We are forced to believe she killed Lord Cyrus.”

  The king nodded and the man sat down.

  No! This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. For a moment she stood motionless in disbelief. This mess was entirely the Nasks’ doing. They knew it wasn’t her sword. They knew it was the work of the Vodar that had killed Cyrus. Kane’s spies had every intention of framing her to keep the king busy. She clenched her fists in anger to keep from shouting.

  Hold yourself together. You must remain composed…

  She looked up at the king. He was her only hope. “I did not do it, Your Majesty. You must believe me. I didn’t kill Cyrus.”

  The king finally stood. Like dominos, the entire hall fell to one knee. She looked around. She was the only one still standing. Even the stooped little man with his staff was kneeling. Let them pay their respects—she had none left to give.

  Perceiving her rebellion, the king’s towering figure rapidly descended upon her. She took several surprised steps back, afraid that he might strike her down.

  Do not fear him. He will think less of you if you fail to stand your ground…

  Swallowing against her now dry throat, she did as Cyrus advised, bravely lifting her chin to meet the king. He was trying his best to frighten her and it was working. When he stopped before her, she discovered how mighty he was. It took everything to keep from cowering.

  She was tall by female standards. Despite this, the king stood a whole head taller. His body was powerfully built. He could have easily flung her across the hall in a single sweep of his fist if anger drove him to it.

  “If you did not kill Cyrus, then who did?” he asked, keeping his voice low and controlled. Only those nearest were close enough to hear. They remained knelt upon one knee: The king had not yet bid them to rise.

  He wanted an answer she could not give—not in front of onlookers. Her eyes nervously flicked towards his Shields. Their faces were composed, but their eyes betrayed them. This interrogation was making them uneasy.

  “Well?”

  “I—I cannot say, Your Majesty.” She faltered under his towering stance. The strength and fortitude she initially possessed was quickly evaporating. At her refusal, fury materialized upon King Talon’s features. For the first time since their meeting, it did not vanish. He no longer held back his feelings.

  “You cannot say?” He spoke through clenched teeth. “Or you choose not to?”

  She shook her head.

  “I think it is the latter. You will tell me. I command it of you.” Obviously refusal was not something he took lightly.

  Your promise will not allow it. Alone is the only way…

  She was so angry at Cyrus for putting her in this tight position.

  It is the only way…

  “I made a promise, Your Majesty.” Her quiet whisper drifted no further than the king’s ears.

  “You expect me to believe such nonsense!?” he glared down at her. “Promise indeed! My obligation is to my people. It is they to whom you owe an explanation. Until then, you are guilty in the eyes of all.” As he spoke, his eyes bored into hers, and for a moment the world disappeared.

  Within the depths of his regard, she found debilitating sorrow. It was well disguised, hidden to protect his vulnerability. Cyrus was a heavy loss for him. In an instant, she realized this pain cut him deeper than his scars ever would.

  Seeing such a human emotion from a monster was enough to make her snap. “Then I shall be guilty!” she cried aloud for all to hear. “I owe your people nothing! Yet I have done more for them than they will ever deserve. If only you knew. You, who locked me in a cell for three days!” The look upon his stunned face was worth the cost she might pay for it.

  “And you expect better?” he asked, not one to be wronged. “You who would deny an entire kingdom the truth they so justly deserve.”

  “Truth?! You don’t want the truth. No, you’re enjoying this. I am here for the amusement of all.” She spread her arms wide. “I am not blind, Your Majesty. Behind your monstrous façade, there is only desolation. You hide it in hopes of disguising your true faults, and many faults you have. Oh, yes. How painful it must be to know the role you played in all of this.”

  It was not in her nature to kick a wounded dog, but after everything he put her through, the torrents of frustration could not be stopped. Worse still, the king was too stunned to respond.

  “Tell me, Your Majesty, does it keep you up at night? Does it cripple you knowing that he died because of you? Because of your rash decisions? Hurt has driven you to a dark place and now you must live with regret. Don’t dig yourself into a deeper hole. Pain is understandable given the mistakes you’ve made. That doesn’t make your behavior towards me acceptable. I find myself disappointed. I thought I was coming here to meet with a king. Instead, all I have found is a rogue beast!” She finished her tirade breathless and shaking. Adrenaline coursed through her, leaving her reckless and stupid. Her words had surely ensured a gruesome end for herself.

  I do not think that was the smartest approach…

  The silence in the hall was profound. She thought the king might strike her down. She’d humiliated him and his eyes flashed dangerous
ly. Most unexpectedly though, he remained in control.

  “Are you finished?” His lips hardly moved as he spoke. She stood silently, wishing he would prove her right, wishing he would show his subjects what a monster he truly was. But he did not lift a finger against her.

  “I’m—I’m finished,” she said at last.

  “Good.” When he spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper, and very different than it had been earlier, more beast-like and intimidating. “Now it is my turn.” He may as well have shouted for all the anger he possessed, rolling off him in waves. “I curse the day my men found you. You have weaseled your way into my kingdom like a worm, blood on your hands and evil in your heart. You bewitched my men into proclaiming your innocence. You stomped through my lands with little regard for the rules put in place by my forefathers. You make silly demands upon my time, while failing to deliver what is rightfully owed to myself and my people.”

  She was too stunned for rebuttal.

  “And now—” He paused to catch his breath. “Now you dare stand before me to lecture me? To tell me what a monster I am?”

  “Your Majesty, even the wisest man can learn from the lowest. Only a fool knows everything.” She wasn’t sure what drove her to say it, or how such a wise thing came to mind in these moments of distress. The instant the words were out, the king’s reaction was immediate. His eyes widened and his expression froze as if he’d been struck by a paddle. Then, every bit of color drained from his face, and he regarded her as if she were a ghost sent to torment him.

  He recognizes my words. He heard them often…

  She stood still, waiting for his wrath, but it did not come. Instead he gave his head a little shake and took control of his emotions, regaining his composure. His voice became very formal, as if the whole debacle had never happened. “These—these words of wisdom are your final defense? You will give no explanation for the death of Cyrus?” He paused here, but when she did not reply he continued on in warning. “Be aware that your refusal will result in a final verdict of guilty. You will be returned to the dungeons to await your death. The torture chambers will show you no mercy, neither will the noose.”

  Torture chambers? What kind of monster was he? Unease broke through what little strength remained, gobbling it up until she was left with nothing.

  This is not King Talon you speak to now, but his black dragon. I warned you not to provoke him…

  Black dragon? What did that mean? What had he become? Was there still some hope of finding the man Cyrus thought him to be? One thing was certain: She had underestimated this cruel monster.

  Taking a deep, steadying breath, she gave her reply. “I am aware of what awaits, Your Majesty. My words are final, as you well know.”

  “Very well. Then you must return to your cell.” King Talon put his back to her and ascended the dais stairs. At the top, he turned to face her once more. She caught a glimpse of something strange upon his face. He had an odd way of regarding her, like a lion watching its prey. It left the hairs of her arms standing on end.

  Engaging the crowd of onlookers, King Talon spoke: “I pronounce this woman guilty of a most terrible crime. Her final days will not be easy, and her death will be the only release she will find.” His verdict should have been terrifying. She was too numb to understand the implications of his words. That would come later.

  “Guards!” he ordered. “Return this woman to the dungeons.” Her two escorts materialized, each employing an iron grip to turn her away.

  In that final moment, as she looked over her shoulder, she caught a brief glimpse of Saffra. The Seer was sitting erect, looking down upon her with dark chocolate eyes. Her gaze was soft and encouraging, and within it she found strength, strength she would greatly need in what was to come.

  39

  Redport

  Tamara turned her head this way and that, studying her reflection in the looking glass. Gemstones glittered in her hair as they caught the glow of orange light from the setting sun. Her hair was fetching, but not nearly as lovely as her ice-blue eyes.

  “Hold still!” She received a warning tug upon her unfinished black tresses. A pile of hair was already gathered upon the crown of her head as a braided bun took form. Jeweled pins were placed throughout the twisted plaits. The ornaments cost a fortune that only the richest girls could afford. Ordinarily, riches were of little interest to her, but tonight was different—tonight was special.

  She smiled at herself with hesitance. There in the reflection was a hint of emerging beauty where before there had been none. Gone were the days of her childhood; her womanhood would soon be upon her.

  Without warning she shrieked. A painful sensation forced her gaze away from her own reflection. Her mother’s lips twitched before deft fingers tugged another willful section of hair tightly into place. “Gods, Mother! Must it hurt so?” Her long hair was a weight pulling at every strand upon her scalp.

  “It must. I will not have this unruly mess of yours coming undone whilst you turn about the floor.”

  “Turn about the floor?” What an unexpected surprise. It took several slow breaths to process her mother’s meaning. “I am permitted to dance?” Her father always forbade dancing, as was right for a parent with a daughter not yet a woman.

  “Yes, I convinced your father. You are nearing womanhood—long overdue I might add.” Most girls her age had already reached womanhood. She often got the impression her mother resented her for the lateness of it. A girl should be a woman by age fifteen. “Regardless of your late womanhood, I see no reason to hold you back. Should you not partake?”

  “I…yes.” A tingle of excitement seeped into her chest, moving down to the tips of her fingers and toes. “I would like to dance, very much so.”

  Her mother afforded her a slow, knowing smile, but something about it was off. The gesture was too forced. She ignored it and instead imagined herself turning about the floor, noticed by all, especially Redport’s guests of honor. Would her glittering hair and elegant attire disguise her age? She was young after all, just old enough to be selected.

  “Do you think the Drengr will pick me?” She could not contain her worry, not even for her mother.

  “The Drengr, dear? For a dance?”

  Tamara hesitated on the brink of a gamble. “No. Do you think the Drengr will pick me as a volunteer?”

  “Gods, child! I thought your father made his point clear.” Even in the wake of asking, Tamara knew it was wrong. The tight grip upon her shoulders and the reddening of Lady Redwynn’s cheeks was answer enough.

  “I thought if I asked you—”

  “You thought I might override his decision?”

  She nodded. Volunteering was the surest way to become a Rider, and with the current Search, there would not come another for several years.

  “My dear, foolish girl—”

  “But I want to become a Rider! Father knows this, as do you!”

  “Nonsense, Tamara. As soon as you bleed, you will do your duty to your house and marry.”

  Her breath caught in her chest as her mind whirled uncontrollably, repeating the horrid statement doled out. It takes but a few words to evaporate happiness. Fewer still to shatter dreams. In such moments as these, it is easy for desperation to grow the way weeds do, strangling hope and eating away all that might come from it.

  “Mama, please! That is not what I want. I cannot—I cannot do it!”

  “You can. You must.”

  “I do not want to be a wife.” She spat the words out like they were rotten greens, spoiled by a winter’s mildew. “I do not want to bear another man’s children, especially a man who is not of my choosing.” She was not livestock to be traded and bartered for. “Please, mother,” she begged, knowing full well her life depended upon it. “Let me volunteer. Let me to go to Fort Squall.”

  “Child! What makes you think you will be selected? You are hardly a fortnight past fifteen.” It was the one question Tamara wrestled with when her fears whispered evil. Fear
s always know how to chase away hope—the same as words do.

  “I will be selected,” she said, reassuring herself more than her mother. “I know I will.” As she spoke the confirmation, it rekindled a vibrant flame, drowning out the growing darkness of failure. If she presented herself, she would be chosen. She was going to become a Rider. She knew it in her very being, the way a spider knows how to weave its web, or a bee knows how to make honey. This was her path.

  “Your father will never hear of it. You will watch the spectacle like the rest of us. Tell me, Tamara, do you know what happens to women who are selected?”

  “They become Riders,” she breathed with excitement. Far away in her mind’s eye, she pictured herself riding aback a great dragon—any color would do.

  Her mother barked a laugh, sweeping away the fantasy she had quickly conjured. “No Tamara. You suffer from many delusions if you believe such drivel. Few of the women who get selected will ever have the honor. What happens to the majority who are not so lucky?”

  This was fast turning into an unwanted lecture. Tamara pursed her lips and shook her head. Silently she chided herself for not knowing the answer.

  Her mother afforded her a look of pity. “Drengr live very long lives, Tamara. A human’s lifespan is but a small length of time to a Drengr. Few are fortunate enough to become Riders. Such a thing is not up to you no matter how badly you want it. It is up to fate, and fate alone.” The Lady Redwynn paused briefly. “No, what happens to the women is a much sadder story.”

  Tamara listened anxiously. Her sweaty hands awkwardly picked at the gold embroidery upon her heavy skirts. She did not want to hear what her mother had to say.

  “Those who are selected grow old, Tamara. They grow old, caged within the walls of the fort, riding on dreams of a life that will never come to pass, cooking food and cleaning chamber pots until they die. You were not born to such a life. I would give mine over and again to save you from such a lowly position.”

  Her mother’s clear opinion chased away her every protest, which fled like the sinking sun outside the window. In its darkening wake, a deep hopelessness settled upon her like the weight of a grain sack. It was suffocating.