Kastali Dun

Talon drummed his fingertips impatiently upon the armrest of Dragonwall’s throne. Its white marble was smooth under his skin, its finish glossy as the day he took up rule. The throne was the pinnacle of the Great Keep. Dragonwall’s kings would come and go, but the throne would never change.

If only the same could be said about today’s circumstances.

Cyrus’s Gift changed everything. There would be no petitions in court today. Remnants of the steward’s announcement echoed in his ears. “By King Talon’s decree, the outsider known as Claire Evans, who has demonstrated unquestionable magical abilities, is to become his royal ward.”

Lord Layton Raffe jumped to his feet when he heard the news. “Magic, you say? Bah! I oppose this decree!” Raffe had always opposed Claire. Even now, the lingering artifacts from the traitors Raffe had blindly followed, seeds planted by Euen Doyle and Stefan Rosen, took root. Though these traitors’ heads rested on spikes, Lord Raffe continued to display obvious distaste.

“Lord Raffe, the topic is not yet open for discussion!” said the steward, sputtering. “You are speaking out of turn—”

“Out of turn?” Lord Raffe cut in, raising his voice, “There is no discussion! I’ll not have it! Not while I sit upon the council.”

“Silence him, Reyr.”

Reyr stood and calmly faced the lord. His expression was stony. “Lord Raffe, the steward has not yet opened the discussion. You are indeed out of turn. If you cannot uphold court rules, you are welcome to step down from the council. In case you have forgotten, two positions are currently open. Why not make it three?”

Lord Raffe turned a deep shade of purple. Reyr’s point was taken. Raffe sank back down in a huff. Reyr turned to the other council members. “Any further protests?” No one dared challenge the Shield. “Good,” said Reyr. He held his hand forward, gesturing that the steward should continue.

The steward nodded. “As the king’s ward, Lady Claire will undergo magical training by the Magoi. Likewise, she will assimilate into our way of life. She will no longer be an outsider, but a citizen of Dragonwall.” With that, he rolled up his scroll. The hall was deathly silent.

The steward gave everyone time to comprehend the full meaning. His pause stretched onward before he said, “Lords and ladies, the floor is now open for discussion. Those wishing to voice concerns may bring forth constructive arguments.” Here the steward glared at Lord Raffe. “Once all voices have been heard, the king will make his final decision.”

As if there would be any other decision.

Lord Ashton Wyndham was the first. He stood, politely waiting for the steward’s permission to speak. Once given, he presented his argument. “I would like to argue against this decree, Your Majesty.”

How unsurprising. Lord Wyndham hated change.

“I have not seen the evidence of Claire’s magic. Have any of you?” Playing on his audience’s interest, he looked in turn at many of them. They afforded him the courtesy of shaking their heads. Pleased, he nodded. “I thought not. Your Majesty, rumors spurred by yesterday’s events of a fight between the serving girl named Claire and our very own Lady Caterina are mere embellishments.”

He considered Lord Wyndham’s argument before turning to face him. He did not rise. “Thank you for your dignified argument, Lord Wyndham. While rumors can easily be misconstrued, I am confident that magic was indeed performed.”

The lord swallowed. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but did you see her perform magic? With your own eyes? Did your Shields? No lord or lady I know, aside from Lady Caterina, can lay claim to such.” He paused briefly. “The servants gathered in the corridors…well…we know how servants like to talk.” A number of hearty chuckles followed his comment.

He chose to ignore the jab directed at the servants’ pastime. “No, Lord Wyndham. I did not see any magic. Your point is taken. However, it was Lord Reyr who ought to speak on the matter, for he arrived shortly after it happened.”

He’d diverted on purpose.

Reyr stood. “I did not see Claire perform any magic, Lord Wyndham, for I arrived too late. Regardless of this, we have unequivocal evidence. Claire is indeed in possession of magic, though untrained.”

“Very well.” Lord Wyndham took his seat. He was smart to keep further doubt to himself.

Thereafter, other council members presented their arguments of disagreement. “Claire was an outsider, how could she possibly deserve an elevated position?” That was merely their jealousy speaking. “Claire was ignorant of Dragonwall’s ways, how could she honor such a position?” Ignorance could be corrected. “Claire was out of control, look how she reacted when provoked?” Magical control could be learned. Each argument received a just explanation. He found himself growing bored. Thoughts of flying began to preoccupy him.

When Lord Glover stood, he braced himself, and all daydreams of flying faded away. This lord often riled him. “Your Majesty, I have heard every argument and my stance remains unchanged. You argue that Claire has the makings of a mage. Mere hearsay will not do! I demand solid proof—”

“You wish me to bring her here, Lord Glover? You wish me to force her to perform for you like a circus animal? Is it a show you seek?” He’d not forgotten their previous quarrel over Lord Glover’s ungrateful wife.

Lord Glover sputtered. His face darkened. “Not necessarily, Your Majesty. If Claire indeed possesses these abilities, perhaps someone of magical expertise ought to attest to your claim?”

“Aye!” came a few echoes of agreement.

“Of course. How could your king’s word possibly be enough?” His gaze narrowed. There were a number of things he was about to say to this spiteful human. A number of things—

“I can attest to her abilities.” A pure, feminine voice silenced the room. He clenched his jaw shut. Lady Saffra, who for some reason was not sitting with her fellow council members, pushed her way to the front of the hall. She was disguised beneath the hood of a cloak, which she removed as she came forward. Realization of her identity swept the room. Grand Mage Marcel followed after her.

“Steward,” Saffra looked at the steward. “May I speak?”

“Of course, Lady Saffra.”

She gave the man a nod of thanks. “I have seen Claire’s magical abilities in my visions. Perhaps that may not be enough for you, Lord Glover, but my visions have proved true in the past. Remember the Gobelin Wars? Besides that, I think most here will agree that I possess significant magical expertise. I am, after all, the king’s royal prophetess.”

Talon huffed, surprised by Saffra’s words and appearance. “What magic have you seen in your visions?” He sat forward a measure, waiting for her answer. Brief surprise showed in her eyes. Perhaps she did not expect his direct question.

She squared her shoulders, lifting her chin to address him. “In my visions, Your Majesty, I have seen Claire use magic to defeat our enemies.” Before her words could sink in, she turned to the audience. “In my visions, Claire uses advanced magic far beyond the abilities of most Magoi. If that is not reason enough to earn your trust, then you are all lost.” Profound silence greeted her words. No one knew what to make of this news, not even he. Without another word, Saffra lifted her hood and turned, melting back into the crowd.

At last, the steward snapped out of his surprise and cleared his throat. “Grand Mage Marcel, have you anything further to add?”

Marcel looked just as shocked, opening and closing his mouth. “I do indeed, Steward.” He took two steps forward. “I merely wish to say that, in my expert opinion, Lord Glover, Lady Claire possesses extensive magical potential.”

Marcel knew all about the Gift, but only as of yesterday like the rest of them. And he’d been sworn to secrecy, like everyone else who knew. He couldn’t have people running around shouting that Cyrus lived on in some human outsider.

At last Lord Glover was resigned to sit. The steward thanked Marcel and sent him away. One last opportunity was given for arguments, but it seemed everyone was scared to speak up. Saffra’s words had hit their mark as surely as her arrows often did. “Very well,” said the steward. “Your Grace, the time has come for your decision. Do you stand by your decree?”

He sat forward. “I do.”

“Then it is final.” The steward looked over to the chronicler and nodded. The hunched little man scribbled something upon his parchment. Court was dismissed. Those in attendance scattered, retreating from the vast hall. He remained seated, deep in thought.

“Do you think it’s true?” Reyr asked, climbing the steps of the dais. “Claire will defeat our enemies with magic?”

“I hardly know.”

“If it is,” Verath said, “Claire has suddenly become a valuable weapon.”

“It would seem so.” His brow furrowed.

“Shall I go and inform Claire of the outcome?” Reyr asked, lifting an eyebrow to inquire.

He almost nodded then thought better of it. “No. I should be the one.” He rose and descended the steps, leaving the hall. Despite the hall’s size, he felt smothered. The openness of the corridors did not help either. The closer he came to Claire’s chambers, the slower his footfalls became.

When he arrived at her door, he heard voices, laughter, coming from within. His jaw clenched tight when he knocked. Before waiting for permission, he opened it. Claire was sitting beside the serving girl, Desaree. Their faces were alight with mirth. He paused briefly, taken aback by the way her happiness had transformed her beatifically. The moment she laid eyes on him, however, the smile slid from her face.

He squirmed under her gaze.

Desaree jumped to her feet. “Your Majesty!” She fell to one knee.

“Please stand, Desaree.” She followed orders, glancing at the open door behind him, as if she were desperate to escape his presence. “Yes, yes. You may go.” She scurried away like a frightened chipmunk. He was used to it. He had that effect on most. His scars unnerved even him sometimes.

He shut the door and took a seat across the table from Claire. She gazed at him like someone ready to argue, despite the lack of any accusation. After the silence stretched on, her eyebrows pulled together. He watched her, hoping to spur intimidation. He failed, for his tactics worked against him, creating the same unease within him that he had hoped to deliver to her.

He tapped his fingertips against his knee before speaking. “It may please you to know, the Court has been informed of my decision to elevate your status. I am removing the ban I have placed upon you. You may roam the keep as you wish.”

Gods! He sounded ridiculous fumbling for words. Gritting his teeth, he pulled his shoulders back until he sat rigid.

Claire remained silent.

“From this day forth you are officially my ward—my responsibility. I expect you to behave appropriately as I have said before. The time has come for you to acclimatize into society. Reyr will see to the matter of your attire.”

Her kirtle was stained in several places. The nobles loved gossip nearly as much as the servants. He wouldn’t have it said that he took poor care of her. But that wasn’t truly why he cared for her appearance. The real reason was, he wanted to prove everyone wrong. Claire would be worth their time and their respect.

She said nothing, continuing to pierce him with her gaze. It was unnerving. He cleared his throat. “Saffra came to your aid today. You ought to thank her next time you see her.”

Her eyebrows pulled together. “Saffra?”

There. That was better than nothing. She was giving him very little to work with.

“Indeed. She presented an interesting theory. She has seen you aid us in battle. She has seen you defeat our enemies.”

Claire’s eyes widened. “She told you about that? She told the court?”

“You knew?” Irritation needled his skin.

“Of course I knew, Talon. The vision was about me, not you.”

He ground his teeth together. “You will address me as, Your Majesty, Your Grace, or King Talon. I understand that our society is different than yours, but if you are to blend in, then you must learn some propriety.”

Her cheeks reddened. She was about to protest. He almost wanted her to. But instead, she pursed her lips. Perhaps her hatred was better than anything else. He was used to being hated. That was an emotion he better understood, just as well as fear and dislike.

“Tell me, did you know of Lady Saffra’s vision before or after your little magical display?”

“Before. Obviously. I’ve been locked up since.”

“Had you come to me, or even Reyr, we might have avoided yesterday’s fiasco.”

Her laugh was sarcastic. “Right. Come to you. Forgive me, Your Grace, but you’re delusional. After everything, you expect me to trust you?” Her eyes narrowed. “Trust can only be earned. I’m sure you know that.”

Gods above! How she had a way of getting under his skin. “You hate me. I understand that. Very well. Go on hating me. But if we are going to outpace Kane, and whatever enemies it is that you are supposed to defeat, we must cooperate.”

Her chest deflated. The hate left her eyes. Her face turned blank. She looked the same way all Drengr looked when communicating with each other telepathically. Then she spoke. “Cyrus said you’re right, and that I ought to be more respectful. That you’re just trying to do your job.”

His chest constricted. The mention of Cyrus chased his anger away. “He talks to you?” A flood of desire washed over him. And jealousy. She had the ability to speak to Cyrus, or at least the memory of Cyrus, when he so desperately wanted to.

She shrugged. “He talks to me sometimes, like when he doesn’t think I’m behaving appropriately, or if he wants to offer advice. Other times he’s just my biggest cheerleader.”

“Cheerleader?”

“Yes, cheerleader. You know…oh, gods, never mind.” She slumped back against her chair.

“And do you agree with Cyrus?” He gazed at her.

“I suppose. We can’t save Dragonwall if we’re fighting each other. But that doesn’t mean I have to like you. I’ll cooperate as best as I can—I suppose—as long as you don’t keep acting like a complete and total ass.”

“A donkey?”

“Ugh!” She threw up her hands in obvious annoyance. “This is ridiculous! An ass. A jerk. A horrid person. A ballbag. However you want to interpret it.”

His mouth dropped open. He was about to retort, but thought better of falling prey to her insults. She hated him enough as it was. He inhaled to smother his reproach.

“Do we have a deal?” she asked, crossing her arms, narrowing her gaze.

“Fine. Deal.” Desperate to escape, he jumped to his feet and left without another word. He could hardly stand another moment in the same room. When he reached his tower, his skin was flushed and his irritation soaring. Who did she think she was? He had given her an elevated position. Suddenly she was in the saddle?

He growled in frustration, going immediately to his balcony. He threw open the doors and shed his skin the way one discarded clothing. The dragon within him was itching to break free, clawing at him with sharp talons. He let it.

Leaping from the balcony, his massive wings spread to catch the air. Today he would head north. He would leave the city behind in favor of Eigaden’s plains. He flew out over the sea before angling his left wing downward. His body swept around towards the keep. A glint of gold caught his eye. He descended. Claire stood out on her terraced balcony gazing up at him, her hair waving in the breeze.

Dropping lower still, he edged closer to the castle’s edifice until his wingtips nearly grazed the stone. Just as he came upon her, he saw her wide-eyed surprise. He opened his maw and roared. She yelped and jumped backward. There! Let her know how frustrated he was. Perhaps now she would fear him like the rest. He pumped his wings once, twice, three times, in powerful downward strokes. The keep disappeared beneath him. Hopefully Claire would too.

The last thing he wanted were thoughts of her intruding in on his time in the sky. The sacred ritual was entirely his. Rolling over, diving down, then pulling up again, he savored the wind as it whistled past him. Still, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to get the gods damned woman out of his mind. Her nerve! Her audacity!

A chuckle rumbled deep in his belly. Her frightened expression had been priceless. He would pay a hundred gold dragons to see that look again. Satisfied, he beat his wings onward in the direction of Eigaden’s plains. His stomach offered up a greedy growl of its own. The grazers would be out this evening. He was eager for a prize.

As he neared the plains, thoughts of Claire continued to plague him. The way her happiness died when he walked into the room. The way her eyes glittered with hate when she saw him. She despised him. Could he blame her? Hardly.

In retrospect, he had handled the entire matter of her arrival to the capital terribly. She tried to warn him from the start. He was too blind to see her real purpose—Cyrus’s purpose. In so doing, he’d made decisions he was ashamed of.

Reyr was right, she never should have gone into that cell. The trial was absolutely unnecessary. But the way he’d behaved afterward? That was the real reason she hated him. Strapping her to a rack, putting a blade to her throat, threatening death. His actions were utterly shameful. That shame would live with him forever. She would never forgive him—not for that.

He snorted at the thought of forgiveness. Smoke tendrils poured from his nostrils. What did he care? He did not need her forgiveness, merely her cooperation.

Regardless of that, he was still angry with himself, if only because of his disgrace. He aggressively snatched up a plump grazer and ripped it apart, feasting on its body. The poor beast did not deserve his punishment, but emotion beat him down like hammer blows.

When he finished feasting, he rose into the air and claimed another. By the third, he could take no more. His stomach was stuffed. He felt his hide stretching, his scales pulling apart to accommodate. If only Claire could see him like this, caught up in the frenzy of feeding. Perhaps then she would truly call him a beast. He would never—could never—forget her words during the trial. And Reyr was correct in that too—he deserved everything she’d said that day.

From the start, he’d carried himself poorly, retaliating in front of his people, snapping back at her like a wounded dog. Could he blame his sorrow? The loss of Cyrus was heavy when she appeared, but that excuse was cowardly, nor did it entirely explain his actions. There was something more, something unsettling that stole his composure and left him unhinged.

From the moment he’d laid eyes upon her, he had feared her. Why? At first he believed her to be threatening. What else might cause such unease? Now he knew, she was not a threat as far as common threats went. She was a threat in a different way, in a way that stole his common sense and replaced it with irrational thought. She was dangerous.

He rose into the air, jumping high from the ground. Beneath him, only bones remained. He began his flight home. As usual, he was reluctant to return, especially knowing she was there.

Why was she so dangerous? He beat his wings harder, hoping the exertion would distract his mind. Why? The question nagged at him, forcing him to confront the deep well of darkness inside, dragging the answer from the bottom. Claire was dangerous because of the way she made him feel. She was like a beautiful enchantress, the ilk of which did nothing but rip apart the hearts of those who loved them. And she would do exactly that, the same way death had done by stealing his parents.

The city’s lights came into view long before he reached its walls. They glittered at him like a beacon. He knew the sight so well, he could recreate it with his eyes closed. He circled lazily towards the lowest courtyard.

Claire…his mind went back to her. Would she be in the dining hall feasting now that her restriction was lifted? No, he did not want to see her. He’d given up intimacy a long time ago and for good reason. After his scars, most couldn’t stomach his appearance. There were some, like Lady Caterina, capable of looking past his face for the pure sake of having the crown. Those types merely disgusted him.

But Claire looked at him. She actually looked at him without disgust and without fear. But in her gaze there was only hate, and that was not something created by his appearance. He’d done that all on his own.

He transformed midair, landing on his feet. Several of his guards rushed forward to greet him. “Welcome back, King Talon.” He nodded and strode away.

Claire hated him, yes, but not more than he hated himself. Perhaps it was better this way. After all, her kindness would do nothing more than remind him of what he could never have. No one could possibly love someone as beastly and hideous as he. Not her. Not now. Not ever.