The heavy door to her cell creaked open and guards beckoned her out. Time had come to face the king. She moved forward in a trancelike state with reluctant feet. Her struggle was hardly noticed by the sentries. They led her through the keep at a quick pace, their movements mechanical and thoughtless in nature just like her mind, which had become too numb to process anything. She hardly noticed the rich sculptures lining the corridors, or the decadent hangings on the walls. She did not perceive the ornate architecture with its arched windows and vine-carved doors. Even less attention was paid to the passersby, who stopped to point and whisper. For all that, she went unseeing.
A rough hand found her arm, forcing her to stop. Double doors towered above her like menacing trolls, barring her entry. These led into the king’s court. It was a mercy they were closed. Her façade of strength crumbled, and she began to tremble without restraint.
“Can I have a moment?” she croaked, her throat dry and her voice little more than a whisper. It was a wonder the guards understood, but they removed their hold upon her and backed away several paces.
She looked down at herself, readjusting her clothing. She had decided to wear the gown given to her by the Sprites. Compared to her tattered jeans and T-shirts, it was the only suitable clothing for a king’s court. She wanted to look her best.
When she looked back up at the doors, a fresh wave of panic clenched her gut. She didn’t have the fortitude to do this—to face the king. Out of desperation, she did the only thing she had left to do. She called out to Cyrus, fishing deep within the depths of her mind. Some impractical notion hinted at the connection between the two of them. There was no logical explanation for it. Ever since her flight over Kastali Dun, a part of her had known: Cyrus was with her. She needed him now more than ever.
Cyrus, what do I do? she asked, begging him to answer. Her question was met with silence. She called out again and again, but there was still no answer. She was absurd to expect an estranged voice to answer her—absolutely absurd—but she was desperate. Cyrus was her only life-line.
His lack of response filled her with dread. Perhaps she truly was alone—alone in this vast foreign land where enemies stalked and nearly everyone was against her. The thought was crippling.
Cyrus, Please! In a final desperate attempt to find him, she called out once more.
I am here…
Emotion slammed into her the same way powerful waves strike a rocky shoreline, sending mist and foam high into the air in a tumultuous crash of water. Her chest deflated and she took several gasps of air. It was difficult to hold back her tears. Was it really him? Was this Cyrus?
I am here. I will always be here…
Yes, that was his voice. Only Cyrus talked like that. How had she missed it all along?
Even the best can neglect the most obvious signs. Be brave, Claire. You saved me, remember? You are stronger than you know…
When he spoke, his words were weighted like a heavy blanket, and they wrapped tightly around her mind. The comfort was immediate, but was it enough? Cyrus said she was strong. Why didn’t she feel it? Strong meant brave, and she was neither.
You are too hard on yourself…
Perhaps he was right, but at the moment she felt like a coward. If she could, she would run away and leave this all behind.
I highly doubt that…
There was a certain smugness in Cyrus’s speech. He knew she wouldn’t flee, even if the guards stepped aside. Deep down she knew it too. Tell me what to do?
You truly wish to know? he asked.
She nodded at the doorway, very aware that this silent conversation was certifiably insane.
You hold your head high and proceed. You have no other choice. You were meant to come here—to do this. Think of it as your destiny…
My destiny?
Cyrus did not answer but from somewhere within, unyielding confidence radiated through her like flames to paper. Her body burned hot as every fearful thought, every second guess, every misgiving was swallowed up, leaving her with courage and strength.
Was it Cyrus giving her the strength she needed? No, somehow she knew otherwise. This was the same courage she experienced when a dragon fell from the sky. It was the same courage that urged her to save the man she found in its place. And it was the same courage she felt when she faced the Vodar wraiths on her front lawn. Cyrus was merely exposing qualities she already possessed.
Never forget that fear is a snare. A reminder of our strength is the best remedy to our struggles…
Cyrus was right. If she allowed herself to fall prey to fear, she would crumble. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Cyrus was with her. He would see her through this.
I will always be with you…
Perceiving a change, the guards resumed their position beside her. One of them rapped three times against the wooden doors with the head of his spear. The echoing booms resounded. The doors immediately swung forward.
Colors greeted her. Rainbows of colors, dancing like ballerinas upon every surface, casting beautiful patterns of light throughout a vast space. Was it magic? She looked for the source. Multi-story stained-glass windows lined the walls. The sight filled her with awe.
They are depictions of the famous battles of Rage put in place by King Eymar, first of his name. The same King Eymar who built this great keep…
The hall was immense, with dark slate floors and thickly carved columns, which gazed down upon her like proud giants. She took a deep breath of air, and then another. The heavy scent of wood greeted her like an old friend. The smell was familiar and comforting. For a moment she was back in Esterpine. Whatever goodness, whatever encouragement the hall was willing to give, she would take.
Harsh hands brought her back to reality. The guards were ready to lead her. She had no choice but to move forward. Radiating pride, she took one step, and then the next. Dragonwall may not have known, but she did: Cyrus had saved them, and she was the one he chose.
“Stand back!” ordered the guards beside her. Their loud voices penetrated the throng of onlookers who crowded together to witness her entrance. In a single sweep they parted, leaving a wide space for her procession, but she could no longer move. There at the end of the pathway was Dragonwall’s king.
The king’s appearance matched what she already knew of him—he was proud, powerful, and fearsome. It showed in his posture. He sat comfortably on his throne, his elbows resting atop the armrests. His fingers were steepled in front of his mouth. This was a man who did not doubt his supremacy. He knew full well of the dominion he possessed, and that made her hate him more.
“Move,” commanded her guards as they shoved her from behind. She took a deep breath and proceeded forward, keeping her eyes glued to the source of her unease. The first few steps were difficult, but with Cyrus’s encouragement, each step became easier than the last until her confident strides had the guards huffing to keep up.
“Reyr, you warned me of her beauty, you warned me of her stubbornness, but it seems you forgot to warn me of her pride.” She nearly faltered when the king’s distinct voice sounded in her mind. “She walks as though I am at her mercy, as if it is I who must answer to her, as if three days in a cell did nothing to her esteem.”
“Yes, perhaps I forgot to mention that.” It was wonderful to hear Reyr so clearly over the buzz of other Drengr voices constantly plaguing her. She gave no notice of the exchange and continued.
Reyr was there in the court. So were his companions, Jovari, Koldis, and two more who were unfamiliar. They sat in elegantly carved chairs. These were arranged at the base of the throne’s dais, three to one side and three to the other. One was empty.
It was my place…
Reyr sat opposite the empty chair, closest to the throne on the other side. Sitting beside him were two of the king’s Shields she did not recognize. Next to the empty chair were Jovari and Koldis. When she briefly met his gaze, Koldis winked. Her heart tightened; his simple gesture meant a
lot. Reyr, she refused to look at. She blamed him for her abandonment.
As she approached, the king’s eyes followed her procession. They were intense, as if he could read her secrets. It filled her with fright, for there was one secret she hoped he would never discover.
When she neared his dais, the king moved his hands, exposing his appearance in its entirety. She was met by a face covered in deep scars. Disguising her shock was difficult. The sight of him encouraged her alarm, and even pity. For a brief moment, compassion replaced her intense hatred. What kind of horrors had done such a thing?
When at last she reached the stairs, she beheld the king closely. He was completely different than she imagined. She expected him to be old—perhaps a white bearded man stooped with age. He was nothing of the sort.
Hiding behind marred skin was a young man. She could see that he was once handsome, with a prominent forehead and heavy-set silver eyes that glittered with flecks of gold when they caught the light. Beautiful as they were, his eyes could not overshadow the rest of him. Was it difficult for his subjects to see past his scars? The mutilations covered his face. The most noticeable line ran diagonally from his right eyebrow to his lower jaw. She forced her gaze away to look at the rest of him.
His jet-black hair was thick and unruly, hardly tamed by the crown of gold atop his head. These two wrestled for power—order versus chaos. The winner was clear. Yet the untidiness suited him, lending itself to the beast-like appearance he possessed.
The guards moved away, shattering the spell that held her captive by the king’s appearance. She was instantly reminded of why she was here. She briefly glanced around the hall, acutely aware of the thousands of eyes upon her. Only one pair mattered, and these hadn’t moved since her coming. The king continued to regard her with a stony expression.
What had she expected? Kindness? A warm welcome? Perhaps some shred of compassion for all she had been through? No, it went deeper than that. She despised his judgement. He marked her as a traitor before ever meeting her.
She was overcome with a sudden need to spite him. Quite obnoxiously, she gave him the sloppiest bow she could muster, keeping her face upturned rather than lowering her head. Her eyes challenged his.
The king’s expression briefly flashed from surprise to disdain. Soon enough it returned impassive. Only his eyes betrayed him, glittering with anger. He knew her behavior was intentional, and she knew the beast within was stirring.
Be careful when crossing a black dragon. Hate him or not, he is still the king…
The response to her action was immediate. Whispers swept through the hall. Appalled onlookers took the opportunity to scorn her. They hated the way she acted, the way she carried herself, the way she dressed like a Sprite, an outsider, someone they did not understand. She no longer cared what they thought: This kingdom was not her kingdom; this king was not her king. Let them talk.
“Silence!” a voice called as a man moved forward from behind the dais. He held a staff, which he rapped several times on the slate floor. His old age gave him a slight stoop. “Silence in the court,” he cried again. “I am the steward and I demand silence!” A hush fell upon the hall.
The stooped man’s eyes found hers. “To the woman, Claire,” he recited mechanically as if reading a script, “you come before the king and court to answer for your crimes against Dragonwall. How do you plead?”
She cleared her throat, praying that her voice would be steady. “I plead not guilty.” There was nothing wrong with saving the world—heroic perhaps, but not illegal. At her words, the crowd erupted into more speculative whispers.
“Siiilence,” the steward cried, letting his voice elongate the word until it snuffed out all else. When his gaze returned to her he continued, “Not guilty? you say. The Council disagrees with you on all charg—”
“What charges would those be, Steward?” Her voice turned sickeningly sweet. This kind of entertainment was beneath her. She merely humored him as a parent would a child. The man grew infuriated. Clearly he had never been spoken to like this by an insubordinate. His face turned a dark angry red and he glanced up at the king, waiting for some form of punishment. The king merely nodded, inviting him to continue.
“First, you stand accused of entering Dragonwall through the Kengr Gate. For this, the Council has already found you guilty. The punishment for such a crime is death.” The stooped little man finished his words with a sly smile, confident that he had won.
Cyrus disagreed. Her mind was full of his words. He rushed through instructions, enlightening her about the laws of Dragonwall, and feeding her the answers she needed to combat the steward. He spoke so quickly that it was nearly too many answers and too much information. It left her mind buzzing.
“Well? How do you counter?” asked the steward.
Remember, you cannot lie …
She nodded to Cyrus’s silent voice then she spoke, “Steward, the common law dictates that the use of any Gate is illegal. However, the original charters written by King Eymar state that under extreme circumstances—such as mine—a person may venture through any Gate from either side.” Confused mumbling followed. The king shifted upon his throne.
“And how is it that you, an outsider, could possibly know of such a law?” demanded the steward.
“You are welcome to have a look, Steward, if you do not believe me. The subclause can be found in article six residing within Laws of the Land, one of three charters written and signed by representatives of the Drengr monarchy, the Sprites, and the Dwargs.”
The steward’s eyes bulged in outrage. His mouth opened several times like a fish starving for air, but no response came.
Tell him where they are…
“The original documents can be found hanging in their frames within the royal library. If you would like to go and have a look, I can wait.” Her brazen words drove the court mad with excitement. Onlookers failed to keep their voices down. She spoke over them. “Please, take your time. I have nowhere else to be.” If the steward wanted to make her the fool, he would have to beat Cyrus’s knowledge. And Cyrus had hundreds of years on the man.
“I know where they reside,” he sputtered. “And I am well aware of the subclauses to which you refer.” With all the chatter, he was forced to yell to be heard. Growing frustrated, he began slamming his staff against the slate floor, calling for silence yet again.
“I am glad of your familiarity with the charters. You then understand that based on my stance, the Council must deliberate for at least twenty-four hours to reconsider the circumstances that have brought me. Shall we reconvene tomorrow?” she asked, knowing full well he would refuse.
“We shall not!” he gasped. “We have other crimes to discuss.”
“Oh very well then, shall we get on with it?” She spoke far more confidently than she felt. She knew the charges would become more difficult to argue.
“The second charge stands as follows: You stand accused of withholding information from King Talon’s Shield, Lord Reyr. This is another act punishable by death.”
How unsurprising it was for the steward to find every possible slip-up to toss her way. She wondered how the king was taking this. Glancing up, she found his face cold and impassive. He wasn’t looking at her. He stared dead ahead at the opposite end of the hall.
“What say you regarding this claim?” asked the steward. He certainly was a hurried little man.
“Well, Steward, you can ask Lord Reyr if you like.” She glanced at Reyr. He looked uncomfortable. “He knew of my reasons. It was he who approved my request, granting me permission to withhold my information and pass through the Gate.”
“Because you gave him no choice!” The commanding voice of King Talon swept through the hall, rich and powerful in its address. An enduring silence fell.
“I believe, Your Majesty”—she pronounced his title mockingly as their gazes met—“that you also know the reason for Lord Reyr’s approval.” Her baiting did not work. The king merely ignored her words an
d smoothed his expression. She knew that he never believed her promise was legitimate. He claimed that she was merely using her promise as an excuse to gain entry into his kingdom.
“How do you plead?” the steward asked, regaining control of the conversation. She gave the king her best look of disgust before turning away.
Plead guilty…
Cyrus’s words felt like a punch to her gut. It was hardly the advice she wanted to hear. A guilty plea meant death. There had to be another way.
The Nasks cannot know about the promise…
Discreetly, she glanced to the left and right of the dais. There she saw the Lower Council. She nervously swallowed. Which two men were Kane’s Nasks? A row of elevated seats ten in length were arranged on each side of the throne room. All twenty were filled. These mediators sat just below the king’s throne in height, giving them a good vantage point of all that transpired. Her eyes flicked from one side to the other. Saffra was there, but she dared not make eye contact with the Seer.
If Kane’s Nasks knew she had the power to sell them out, what would they do? Sneak down to the dungeons and kill her in her sleep? Perhaps they would call for her immediate death, to which the gathered crowd would respond with glee. Or worse still, they might flee, never to be held accountable for their treason.
Give no indication that you know. Kane has no idea of what I saw within his mind…
She should have been afraid, and maybe there was fear hiding beneath her adrenaline, but there was still strength too. Guilty or not, the king wouldn’t dare kill her, not yet, not before she could tell him what she knew. The steward was still waiting for her answer.
“For these charges, Steward, I plead guilty.” Her words were as heavy as death. The hall erupted into chaos. The steward failed to withhold his malicious grin. He was delighted. How much had Kane’s Nasks paid him to tip the scales?
“Are those my only charges?” she asked, tired of entertaining the crowd at her own expense.
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