“My lady?”
She turned. “I apologize, Jocelyn. What did you say?”
“Oh, no need for apologies, my lady. I was merely admiring the orange peonies there. Are they not beautiful at this time of year?”
She nodded. “Aye. They are. Cyrus’s favorite flower, I do believe. He used to keep vases of them in his study, especially when my focus required aid.” She did love the sweet scent they gave off, especially in the morning. Bending, she buried her nose in the nearest bush and inhaled. Her being was immediately calmed.
The feel of the cool blossoms against her skin was all she remembered before blackness took her, as her visions often did. In that moment, her awareness was stolen and placed afar:
She found herself spying over a wilderness of vast hills set before the backdrop of monstrous mountains. There she beheld the Gate, for she knew its likeness well. Its tall black pillars gleaming in the bright sunshine were akin to ominous sentinels of the landscape, as if they guarded the realm of Dragonwall.
Through this portal a familiar face emerged. Jovari was a welcome sight, for he and his companions had been missing, and the king worried so. Almost immediately after, Koldis appeared. He too stepped from between the black columns. What he brought with him was not pleasing. Cyrus, dead and shrouded, lay within his arms. The solemn expressions of Koldis and Jovari reflected her sentiments exactly. They too grieved for their lost brother. She looked at the two of them as they silently regarded the landscape. Their eyes fell in her direction, as if they looked directly at her. It was almost eerie.
Patiently, she waited for the third and final member of their party. Reyr lingered, for he did not come behind them. She very badly needed to see his appearance—to know that he too was alive and well.
At last, much to her relief, Reyr came forth, but he was not alone! It was most unexpected. Instead, he emerged hand in hand, guiding one from the world Beyond. This was the very same golden-haired woman ever present in her troubled mind.
Saffra watched the four of them, utterly shocked. How could it be?
Before she could discover anything more, without a further moment for speculation, the gods expelled her from the vision and she found herself on the ground within Jocelyn’s arms.
“My lady?” Jocelyn gently patted her face. “My lady! Is everything all right?” Jocelyn was used to her frequent fainting spells. They always left her handmaiden pale and scared. The poor woman reacted much the same way each time.
“I am fine, Jocelyn.” She offered the woman a weak and unconvincing half smile. Several whispers sounded from behind them. She could only guess that she had an audience. It was no wonder the keep’s residents thought her strange. Many of them avoided her. It was easy to see why. Dropping unconsciously in public must have appeared wholly unnatural to them. And it happened often, especially as of late.
“Help me to my feet, if you will,” she asked of Jocelyn. With Jocelyn’s assistance, she was able to stand, although her limbs remained shaky and unstable.
Once she was upright, a realization struck her. This vision, harmless as it seemed, required attending to. The thought left her stomach churning. “I must see the king immediately.”
Although Jocelyn did not reply forthwith, Saffra did not miss her handmaiden’s intake of breath. It was a clear sign of her reluctance. It was not as if Saffra wanted to visit His Majesty under such circumstances. On the contrary, she desired to run as far as possible from him. Even the thought of him frightened her, knowing what a horrid state he was in.
“My lady, surely you are too unwell to visit the king. Let me take you back to your chambers such that you might regain your strength.”
“Thank you for your concern, Jocelyn, but I must go to his tower directly.”
Jocelyn was merely trying to protect her. None feared the king more than the common people. But he was only frightening on the outside to those who did not know him well. Generally, that encompassed the entire population of Dragonwall except those closest to him. Their reasons for fearing him were obvious to her. The awful scars upon his face, his mighty build, and his terrible temper gave him such a beastly reputation. It was no wonder that he was avoided.
However, he was a good man. She knew that the king would never harm her, despite Jocelyn’s thoughts. Jocelyn and many others believed him to be capable of such brutish behavior merely based on the numerous tales that flew freely, but rumors were foolish, and people loved to gossip.
When she and Jocelyn entered the corridor leading to the king’s tower, she dismissed her handmaiden. “I will direct myself from here, Jocelyn. Thank you.” Jocelyn bowed her head and departed.
There, Saffra stood alone in the shadows for several long minutes, composing her thoughts. The castle keep was quiet this morning. It was a blessing, for she needed time to think.
Her mind was fraught with uncertainty. The king was entitled to know that Reyr was well, that the search party had indeed located Cyrus, and that they were now returning with him to the capital. He also deserved to know that the golden-haired woman accompanied them. To give the king adequate forewarning, such a surprise was best relayed in advance, and in private.
Her stomach clenched tightly—uneasily—for she understood the tight spot this woman would be in. Outsiders were not permitted through any Gate in Dragonwall. Stories did tell of such cases where strangers found themselves within the kingdom. These otherworlders always touted the same explanation, that they had traveled through a mysterious portal to find themselves in a strange land filled with dragons and magic. Such a retelling was ever their downfall. The penalty associated with using any Gate was death, especially if the traveler came from the other side. Too many dangers were associated with that unknown world.
The king would surely insist upon such a verdict when he learned of the golden-haired woman. But furthermore, what would he do upon discovering that she was also present by the side of Cyrus’s dead body? The woman’s outlook looked bleak. Yet in her heart, she knew this woman was surely innocent.
Why did it feel as though she held the power of this person’s fate in her hands?
Perhaps she could omit the truth—only a small portion of it. She could leave the second part out. She could pretend that she had never seen the woman before. She could avoid mention of her, claiming to have only witnessed Cyrus lying dead upon the grass, and Koldis, Jovari, and Reyr returning. But that would require lying to the king. What a terrible and deceitful act! Could she do such a thing?
Pursing her lips, she wiped her sweaty palms upon her clothing and straightened her skirts. Then, she proceeded forward to the king’s tower. It was time to do her duty.
19
Kastali Dun
King Talon recognized his torment. He knew it well, for it found him as it often did. In so doing, his bane greeted him the way an old friend might after long winter or distant journey. And this friend? He hated it. His heart cursed it.
Loss was not something he did well. For a king, loss meant guilt. Loss meant failure. Cyrus was his to protect. The bond they shared went deeper than blood. It was a profound connection that perhaps only mated Drengr could understand, but even then, it was different. Incomparable.
To accompany it, the rage and anger he so often wrestled with burned brightly, engulfing him within a blaze of uncontrollable emotion. How he hated himself when he became like this! Yet this was how he coped. He had always been more dragon than man, and it showed. In times like these, by the gods, it showed.
Fury was easier than grief, it was easier than sorrow, though both were cowardly roads to take. Still, he took them. He took whatever he could. Life was hard enough as it was. And yet, though it was easier to be angry, it was not easier than the torment accompanying his loss. It was not easier than the guilt he felt from his failure.
The dragon side of him dominated his being. Such powerful emotions—not necessarily coherent and certainly not controllable—wreaked havoc on his surroundings. Most of the belongings in
his private quarters had been smashed and broken. Wrecking them brought no relief, no comfort. He had done it anyway. Even afterward, he hadn’t the heart to say the words that might make such objects whole again. He himself was no longer whole. The state of his living quarters was an accurate reflection of himself.
If only the gods would grant him one small mercy. He wanted nothing more than to remain locked away for eternity, never to face his duties, never to admit publicly of his errors, and most certainly, never to show how broken he felt.
He was altogether angered anew when a knock at his door disturbed him. Normally such intrusions would be announced, but the guards knew better than to enter. He kept them terrified such that they stayed away. Ignoring the rapping nuisance, he gave no response. Instead, he sat on the torn sofa sipping his brandy wine. It was the only thing that calmed him to some small measure.
His living space looked as though he had taken up his dragon form to rampage through the rooms. Maybe he had. He could not remember. Regardless, such an unflattering sight should remain private and unseen. He had no desire for anyone to behold it.
More pounding ensued, to which he let forth a low growl in warning. Did the guards know no better? “Leave me be!” he roared at last. And for a moment they did. Only then, the door slowly opened. How dare they?
He rose. So did his fury. Just as he was about to lose control and perhaps condemn a guard or two to the dungeons, Lady Saffra stepped through. Her eyes were wide as she took in the state of things. Silently, she shut the door behind her.
She was scared. He did not miss it upon her features. He frightened all, except those who mattered most to him. Saffra was young, just under twenty if his memory served him. Why should she not be afraid? Still, her obvious feelings brought only annoyance.
He spoke before she had the chance. “I do not wish for your horrid tidings this day, Lady Saffra. You would do well to leave me before I act in a way that is not kingly.” It was a trial, controlling his voice, controlling his temper.
She curtsied, clenching her skirts with her fists as she lifted them slightly. “Your Grace, I—”
“Talon will do, Lady Saffra. I am no king today.” He hated the respectful title she bestowed upon him. He did not deserve it.
Lady Saffra looked surprised by his words. She opened and closed her mouth several times. All the better to leave her speechless. He wanted naught to do with her. At last, she gave a small nod. “I apologize for coming to you in such a time.”
“Bah!” he waved a hand. “As always you display the utmost politeness.” As he spoke, mocking her conduct, he felt his eyes roll. “I have not the patience for it.” At that, he threw himself back into the only seat in the room, the only piece of furniture that was not otherwise destroyed. There he took up his goblet once more. Saffra watched him silently, judging him harshly no doubt. But rather than run away, she remained. At last he was forced to concede. “Very well, Lady Saffra, tell me what you have seen. And I swear to the gods, if it be more bad news, I will have you locked away, never to trouble me again. You bring only vexing matters that are better left for another time.” He would never do such a thing. Not ever. But it felt good to make threats. The truth was, he needed Saffra. If he was to succeed, even to a small extent in his position, he needed her greatly.
She flinched only slightly, but she did not cower away from his threat. That was a thing to be admired, surely. Though she was still very clearly apprehensive and hesitant.
“Your Grace, I have seen Reyr, Jovari, and Koldis. The gods bequeathed me with a vision of them entering the kingdom through the Gate in Kengr. With them they brought two—Cyrus, dead and wrapped in a shroud, and a woman.”
“What did you say?”
Saffra repeated her words, though it was unnecessary. It took some patience to digest what she said during her second recounting. When she finished, only one aspect of Saffra’s information seemed to echo in his mind.
“Tell me of this woman. Who is she?”
Saffra held her silence. She was considering something. At last she replied. “She was a young woman, Your Grace, perhaps my age, perhaps a little older. Beautiful, to be sure. With golden hair and green eyes.”
“Nothing more? You know not who she is?” Why did he get the impression that Saffra was withholding information?
Saffra gave her head a little shake, as if to deny such a thought.
How dare this outsider? How dare this woman intrude upon his kingdom during such a time of turmoil. Was his job not hard enough already?
A roar escaped his chest, unleashing itself before he could do anything to stop it. It was the sound only a dragon could make. Saffra’s dark eyes widened. He cared not. “What a foolish thing for this woman to do! Do you not think? Does she wish for death?”
“I—”
“You need not answer me, Lady Saffra.” His words silenced her. Standing, he began to walk back and forth, exacting more details from her about the vision until he could see the scene clearly in his mind’s eye.
A single dominant theory developed within his thoughts. Reyr would have a good reason for breaking the law. He knew the man better than most. Reyr was honorable. For him to resort to such drastic measures—bringing an outsider into the kingdom—it could mean only one thing. It meant that this woman had done something terrible enough to warrant a hard justice, a king’s justice. He was muttering to himself as he ran through these ideas.
This woman was responsible for the death of Cyrus, to be sure. Rage and hate boiled up inside of him. He would kill her for this. Worse, he would make her suffer for the pain she had caused him.
“Your—Your Grace,” Saffra began stuttering once she understood his intentions. “I do not believe this woman is guilty. It would seem impossible. I beg that you reconsider your allegations.”
“I did not ask for your beliefs, Lady Saffra, nor your begging.” His voice was closer to a snarl. “You are a prophetess, and a young one at that. Here you stand before me, arguing against my judgement. Titles of king aside, I have walked in this world far longer than you. You would do well to hold your tongue from such decided opinions, and refrain from giving them so freely.” It was the best he could do to govern his temper.
Saffra was quiet after that. He could see the clench of her jaw and tightness of her balled fists. In the silence, a new thought occurred to him. “Tell me, Lady Saffra, I have only just remembered. In the council chambers some days’ past…” He could not remember how many, for time had spun itself together in a never-ceasing array. “What did you see when you slumped unconscious in your chair? It happened in the same moment I felt Cyrus’s death. Did you witness it?”
Saffra’s eyes widened briefly. She did not answer immediately. He disliked her hesitation. Furthermore, it was unlike her.
“I saw his body, Your Grace. I saw his body bloodied with stab wounds, lying dead upon a grass lawn. His skin was the color of soot—blackened with poison.”
He waited for her to say more. She was too easy to read. There was more, but why she refrained from divulging it was beyond him. Saffra was always forthcoming. When she did not speak, he afforded her a severe look of warning. She flinched and then spoke, “The woman was there. She was there beside him.”
“I thought as much. I needn’t remind you Lady Saffra that it is a terrible crime to lie to a king.”
“You are no king today,” she replied at length. Her voice shook, displaying the great gall it took to speak to him like this. She was beginning to view him with disgust. It was well warranted. Rather than release his fury upon her, as he most certainly would have done had it been anyone else in the room (aside from his six) he silently commended her for standing up to him. Few had the courage to.
“You are correct, Lady Saffra. Today I am nothing like a king. Now leave me.”
“But…”
“But, what?!”
Saffra started. “The woman did not do anything, Your Grace! I am sure of it. She merely cried over his body.
You must believe me. She is not his killer.”
“Have you proof?”
Saffra shook her head and remained silent.
“I thought not. As such, I will make the decision regarding this woman’s guilt, not you. Now go.”
Saffra fled without another word.
Several days later, when the time came to call an assembly of his Lower Council and inform them of the recent developments, thanks to Lady Saffra, they reached the same conclusions as he. Lady Saffra stayed away from this meeting. She often did unless he required her attendance. He would have stayed away too, if such a thing were possible.
In the end, the verdict was unanimous. This woman, whoever she might be, was surely guilty of a great crime.
“You must condemn her to death, Your Grace, and kill her immediately,” Sir Rosen said after hearing the information. “Such a woman is surely a great sorceress and must be eliminated.”
“She is an immense danger to our kingdom,” the others argued. “But surely a trial will be more fitting for our customs.”
“And allow her to speak? Allow her to curse us all?” came the rebuttal from some.
In truth, he wished very badly to hear what this woman had to say. Though he doubted her words would be of any importance. At the least, he wanted to hear her admit to her crime. Such a declaration might bring him a measure of satisfaction.
“I will not kill her immediately,” he decided at the close of their meeting. Upon hearing his verdict, the chronicler recorded his words, scratching away with his quill upon parchment. “I must think the matter over for now. As such matters go, a vote will be taken before I give you my final decision. But know this: if she is his killer, a painful death will await her. There will be no mercy.”
Talon the Black Page 14