Talon the Black

by Melissa Mitchell

  “Does it hurt?”

  Emmy smiled. “I doubt you will notice. Other things will capture your attention when it takes form.”

  “Oh.” She could guess the other thing Emmy referred to. Her face heated. Eager to change the topic she asked, “What is it like, being mated? Is it true that your mind is forever linked to Davi’s?”

  There was so much she wished to know. And with Emmy, she finally had access to answers. Better still, with Emmy being a woman, she did not feel embarrassed. “I hear it is like having another person’s head connected to yours...” She trailed off. Something was wrong. “Emmy?” Emmy’s face was paper white. Had she said something to upset her?

  Emmy gasped. “No! It cannot be!” she cried. She stood, covering her mouth in shock. Her face had gone deathly pale, and her eyes were far away and unseeing.

  “Lady Emmy?” she asked again as worry crept into her stomach. What in the name of all the gods could be the matter?

  “Please Davi, tell me it is not true.” Emmy’s voice was quiet as she spoke. Tamara barely heard it. Emmy walked over to the back wall and sank helplessly to the floor. Something was indeed terribly wrong. Lady Emmy, her face now hidden in her arms, wept.

  A wailing sound erupted outside. It was low, but deeply penetrating, reverberating up through the floor, embedding itself into Tamara’s bones. Tears began flowing down her cheeks as a great sorrow filled her. Another keening cry accented the first, and then another, until the voices of a hundred Drengr permeated the air. Something bad had happened—something tragic. She could feel it in the pit of her stomach, she could feel it in her tears.

  Ignoring Emmy’s anguish, she got up and went to the window. There she saw a strange sight, one she would remember for the rest of her life. Every Drengr within the fort had taken to the sky, most without their Riders. Byron’s icy blue form was amongst them. Her heart jolted when she saw him with his brethren.

  The Drengr flapped their wings, allowing them to hover in midair. But it was the way they held themselves that was odd. Their necks were elongated, their faces upturned towards the heavens, their jaws wide open. The harrowing sound continued to pour forth. It could only mean one thing. Death. Death had come and delivered a great loss.

  51

  Kastali Dun

  Talon resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably in his chair. This was the third council meeting since Claire’s trial. It was proceeding as poorly as the first two. Was it a surprise? Hardly. He came to understand the usefulness of council meetings remarkably early in his rule. The more difficult the problem, the less helpful his advisers became.

  Their first meeting occurred the day following Claire’s trial. It revolved around Kane and the shock of betrayal from high ranking members of society. During that gathering, his Lower Council wasted significant time expressing outrage towards Stefan Rosen and Euen Doyle.

  “I always knew something was off about those two,” was amongst the common claims spoken by the Lower Council. As if they could have known any better than he! With his keen dragon senses, the lies and deceit of a human were easily recognizable. They came in the form of elevated heartbeat, the scent of worry, shifting eyes, fidgeting, and perspiration. No, he was not easily fooled. But these were Nasks, controlled by a sorcerer. That made them very difficult to read—he understood that now.

  The second meeting centered largely around the threat of wild dragons. It took nearly a week for his members to overcome the initial shock of Kane. Only then did they take seriously the threat of dragons. That meeting faired no better.

  Now to his dismay, this one fixated entirely on Claire, on the mass of complaints mounting against her. Just thinking of the woman left him uncomfortable. He would have preferred any discussion to this one, but he had no choice. As usual, he was forced to sit still and listen to the ceaseless bickering of his Lower Council. Oftentimes he found it easier to let them at each other’s throats before intervening. Out of sheer boredom, the tactic usually offered some measure of entertainment. But for the first time, his patience was wearing thin.

  To occupy his hands, he fiddled with a coin, which he now slipped back into his pocket. It was a gold dragon, the first ever minted, and a gift from his father. He had coins aplenty, but this one would never be spent. Turning his attention to the lords, he focused on their discussion.

  Lord Layton Raffe was speaking adamantly, sputtering and spitting with anger. He lifted his gaze to the red-faced man before scowling at Lord Raffe’s words. “How can we trust an outsider within our walls?” Lord Raffe demanded. “How, I ask you?” The argument was intended for Lord Charles Karney, who bore an expression of distaste. These two never got along.

  “My thoughts exactly!” Lord Ashton Wyndham interrupted. “How do we know she is not in league with Kane himself?”

  Before either of the two lords could respond, Lord Erwin Glover put forth his own opinion. “I say we send her back.”

  Enough was enough. “We cannot send her back, Lord Glover.” He lifted his voice above the others. Silence immediately followed. “As I have already said, Claire is to remain within the keep.” He sat forward a measure to glare at the man. Intimidation always worked. Then he turned to the remainder of the lords. “Outsider she may be, she is under a death threat from Kane. Moreover, she possesses information that should not wander freely. She stays.”

  “But the verdict,” Lord Wyndham cried, rising from his seat. “The verdict was death. If her information is our worry, let us carry through with our initial decision! Call for her head!”

  How moronic these lords were! Was he to remind them every few minutes? “Lord Wyndham, please do keep up. That decision is null.” He fixed his gaze upon the squat little man. “Before we discovered the Unbreakable Promise, your argument held merit. With the Promise, we have already agreed: Claire was acting under unusual circumstances.” Lord Wyndham sat down in a huff.

  “What if she lies?” Lord Glover demanded.

  “She does not lie.” His nearly imperceptible growl was adequate.

  “If the king is certain, we should not question him,” the steward reminded everyone.

  “Mathis, that is the best thing you have said all day.”

  A new thought came to him. He turned from the steward to face his advisors. “Tell me, my lords, does this woman’s presence bother you because she possesses no pedigree?” Nobles hated commoners. It should come as little surprise they applied this same hate in excess to outsiders.

  When they did not answer he said, “I see,” and shook his head in disappointment. “Maybe I was wrong. Perhaps you are peeved for another reason. It frustrates you, does it not, that Claire has done more to save this kingdom than any of you have?”

  His council members shifted nervously in their seats. They were of little help with anything—simply another example of unnecessary uselessness. Were it up to him, he would have gotten rid of the Lower Council long ago. “The king chooses his Shields and the people choose theirs,” his father once told him. Each of the twenty council members were selected by the twenty lord-governors along with their people, to represent the twenty Dragondoms at court. The reason being, this ensured wise advisers were present in matters of politics and decision making.

  His inadvertent reminder of Claire’s contribution to Dragonwall’s cause worked. Lord Richard Rosk broke the stunned silence, coming to his aid. “Perhaps, my lords, our king has the best of it.” Lord Rosk often displayed better sense than the others. “After all, this girl is merely a servant with no rank. No bother to us, eh? Let us lay down our arguments and accept the king’s decision with dignity.”

  “No bother, Lord Rosk?” Lord Glover protested with no intent to budge. “Why, just the other day, my wife and some of her ladies took a walk accompanied by Lord Jovari. She was up in arms upon returning home. Apparently, Lord Rosk, Lord Jovari greeted this servant as if she were royalty.” The man glared at Lord Rosk as he spoke. “Lord Jovari suggested that this woman and another serving girl take
a turn with them about the castle!”

  There were several quiet gasps along with a few protests. “Outrageous!” he heard one lord mutter.

  “Lord Glover, do you question the actions of my Shields?”

  “No. No, Your Grace. I merely—”

  “You merely intend to pass judgement!” The full force of his irritation was evident. The color drained from Lord Glover’s face. It was time to remind the lord of his position. “I can assure you, my lord, that no harm has come to your lady by way of Lord Jovari’s actions, no matter how appalled she may be.” Lord Glover was nearly trembling under his narrowed gaze.

  “Furthermore, Lord Glover, I suggest you go home tonight and teach the kind Lady Glover that it is the servants who draw her baths, the servants who bring her food, the servants who clean up after her, and you may finish by telling her that the servants contribute far more to this keep than she ever will.”

  There were no further protests following this clarification. Thank the gods. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  Putting Claire in a position of servitude was done strategically. It was done with intention. His Council believed the woman was merely there because she was of no consequence. That was what he wanted them to think.

  He could have treated Claire as the hero she was, though that matter still irritated him. He should have been the savior of his own kingdom. After all, he was their king, their protector. Instead it was some silly woman who knew nothing about Dragonwall, nothing about its people nor its customs.

  Yes, he could have given her a comfortable life with no responsibilities. And he might have, despite his deep frustration with her need to combat him at every turn. His mind drifted back to Verekblot and her biting remarks in the corridor. He was only trying to help. Still, she took pleasure in wounding him.

  Furthermore, he could have offered her gifts in return for her service. He ought to, in spite of his fury towards her for humiliating him. After all, she deserved far better. Yet none of these were the principle reason he placed her in servitude. He did it to draw as little attention to her as possible. She would be far safer unnoticed than she would be in the public’s eye. By now, Kane’s servants were looking for her. It was imperative that he keep her safe.

  His gaze flicked around the table. After their scolding, his council members shifted uncomfortably while they waited for their next matters of business. It was high time to carry on.

  “Mathis, now that Lord Glover better understands me, what other matters of import remain?” He could hear the chronicler’s quill scratching across the parchment, excessively taking note of the entire conversation. “We best get this meeting moving, for I have urgent business that takes me away.” It was a lie, but he was eager to escape, if only to get the damned girl out of his head.

  “Of course, Your Grace. The Council wishes to hear an update regarding Lor—regarding Stefan Rosen and Euen Doyle.”

  “Very well.” This topic was preferred to the previous. “The traitors have been dealt with. In my opinion, they are of no further use to us. Schedule the execution for a fortnight from today.”

  “Done.” The chronicler’s quill scratched away.

  He’d spent the better part of the week in the dungeons. The screamers earned their reputation well. At the start, he hoped to gain valuable information from the two men. The restless dragon within took pleasure in exacting revenge. But he quickly found his prey nothing more than blithering idiots.

  Verath had no answers regarding the ruin of their minds, only that Kane must have tampered with them when he withdrew. Nonetheless, the effects on his temperament had been miraculous. He almost felt like himself again…almost. Something was holding him back, though he could not explain it. Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with his lingering sorrow for Cyrus.

  Eager to get away, he looked at those in attendance. “If that is all my lords, shall we conclude today’s meeting?” He used the title of lords because Lady Saffra was not present for this meeting. She was the only member who could get away with such delinquency. The males never seemed to mind her absence. In fact, they preferred it. For that he envied her.

  “Just a moment, Your Grace. One more matter on our agenda.” Mathis feigned interest for several long moments in the chronicler’s parchment. “Ah yes. We have yet to discuss the matter of you finding a wife.”

  He snorted. Not this again. Despite everything, they were still hung up on a wife. Gods be damned! “A wife,” he repeated.

  “Yes, my king. I hope the duration of time allotted was sufficient to think the matter over.”

  “You wish for me to marry the daughter of a traitor?” He kept his voice low and controlled while allowing ice to seep into his tone.

  “No! No, Your Grace,” Mathis cried. “Any lady will do. Any lady. The people need reassurance. They could use a positive diversion amidst the chaos beset upon us.”

  “The people,” he muttered. Always the people. “So then, any wife I choose? That would please them, would it?” Never mind that only a mated female could bear the child of a Drengr—they always seemed to forget that.

  “Of course, Your Grace, of course.” Mathis bobbed his head about.

  “I see. And would dying gruesome deaths while they sleep also please the people?” Shocked gasps resounded. “Last I checked, Mathis, it was the people’s safety to which I look. They would rather I go gallivanting off in search of a wife than see to more immediate threats? Lest we not forget Kane with his wild dragon horde to the north, nasty Gobelins to the east, Vodar wraiths wandering the kingdom, and pirates raiding the shores.” That would shut them up. Find a wife. What nonsense!

  “Certainly, my king. Certainly. When you put it that way...” They were squirming in their seats. “Finding a wife can—”

  He never heard the remainder of Mathis’s response. Reyr’s voice was in his mind. “Urgent message, your grace. May I enter the council chamber? I would rather deliver the news in person.”

  He gave his approval. Reyr entered, thoroughly flustered. “Lord Reyr,” Mathis cried, eager for the subject change to avoid his embarrassment. The lords around the table rose in unison to pay respects to their superior.

  “Good afternoon my lords, my king.” Reyr nodded to each of them until the Drengr’s gaze settled last upon his king.

  “You look as though you have seen a ghost, Reyr.” He made eye contact with his Shield. “Thank you, by the way, for rescuing me from this debacle,” he silently added. “I might go black if I spend another minute in this room.” Using his color’s curse as a joke was not something he did often, but his frustration drove him to it.

  “Save your thanks, my king,” Reyr spoke aloud for all to hear. “There has been another attack in the North. A string of attacks, in fact.”

  “Attacks?” several of the lords cried in confusion.

  His stomach rolled over on itself. Kane was making good on his promise to deal death should the Stones be withheld. He wanted to doubt the sorcerer, wanted to pretend the Asarlaí’s threats were nothing more than threats, but now it was all too real.

  “Very well then, Reyr. Let us have the worst of it.”

  Reyr nodded, opening a letter. “This reached me not but five minutes ago. It is from Fort Squall’s leader, Lord Davi. The date is yesterday. He sent it with great haste. Dragon attacks in the North. Ravaging and burning, beginning with Landow. If you remember correctly, Your Grace, that was the village where I found our witness—Mikkin was his name.”

  “Aye. I remember.” He slumped back in his chair. This was difficult news indeed.

  “There is more.” Reyr’s words made him sit up straight again.

  “Gods. There cannot be more,” Lord Rosk breathed.

  “Indeed. Five Drengr and their Riders—all dead. A small covey in the area was intercepted by the dragon horde, one hundred strong. They managed to send a few panicked thoughts to another covey nearby before they were eaten alive.”

  A few of his lords shrieked. He did not
hear the remainder of their surprised remarks. Their voices melded into the distance.

  The way he felt when Cyrus died was still too familiar. It resurfaced with this new loss. Too many lives, and all because of his leadership. His heart constricted, and the world crashed down around him. He needed fresh air. Without another word, he rushed from the room, Reyr hot on his heels.

  When he burst out onto his terrace, the sea breeze greeted him. Ignoring Reyr, he jumped from the ground, transforming into his natural hulking form. He took to the sky, allowing his emotion to take over.

  Opening his jaws wide, a cry of anguish escaped his lungs. It was organic, innate, a response to the death of his kind. Moments later, Reyr’s golden form was beside him, sounding the same mournful cry. And within minutes, the entire sky was alight with his brethren, each echoing the same anguish. As if Cyrus wasn’t enough, death had come again.

  52

  Kastali Dun

  Claire’s eyes flew open. Panting and covered in sweat, she pushed her blankets away. Tonight marked the fourth night this week. She got up and lit a candle then sat cross-legged upon her cot to think.

  The dream was the same as before, bits and pieces, strange scenes, riding on the back of a red dragon, a dark cave with a lake, a blue Dragon Stone, images she hardly comprehended, except one—a single picture that was unforgettable. Kane’s glowing red eyes were burned into her mind, staring back at her through the reflection of the lake water. They’d haunted her for days. She knew them well because they were the same eyes that stared hatefully back at her through the faces of Stefan Rosen and Euen Doyle.

  “Ever since I started drinking that stuff,” she whispered, shaking her head in disgust. She was nearly a slave to it now, regardless of the nightmares. The Aegan was incredible, no doubt about that. Something like it in her home world would sell faster than any drug on the black market.