Talon the Black

by Melissa Mitchell

  45

  Fort Squall

  Tamara bit her tongue to avoid crying out when her knife sliced the skin of her forefinger. Gods above! She pulled her hand away before blood ruined her work, and went in search of a bandage. With a cloth strip tightly tied around the wound, she continued. Her pile of carrot rounds grew until carrots began cascading down from the top. She picked them up, depositing them into an empty crockery. The others were already full, a product of her labor, many hours, and multiple cuts.

  Had the cook known about her inexperience, he would have sent her away. She smartly hid her blunders, happy for the assignment. Her mind jumped to the chamber pot maids and she shuddered. No, the cookery was a fine place to work.

  When she finished with the last carrot, she paused to admire her work. Not bad for a highborn lady. She stifled a giggle. Her mother would have a fit, seeing her in such a state: dirtied face, clothed in rags, wielding a knife to chop vegetables. The necessary disguise was satisfying when she considered the way her mother might feint.

  She placed the large crockeries along the hearth then took up several yellow onions. These were her least favorite, forcing painful tears from her eyes. The burning sensation was most unpleasant. She was used to it now, but the first time it happened, she panicked.

  Learning to blend with the servants of Fort Squall offered a myriad of challenges, and onions were the least of them. The journey alone was difficult. It took over a week to reach the fort on foot. She kept to the rear of the party, with her eyes downturned. When spoken to, she mumbled responses, pretending to be a dumb little thing. No one bothered her much, which was a small mercy, for her body developed numerous aches the farther she traveled. And the blisters!

  Laying eyes upon the city of Squall’s End was worth the struggle. Its magnificent expanse stretched out before her as the party crested a hill, and she could see the fort positioned little more than a field’s distance away, to keep Drengr and human politics separate. How gratifying it was to achieve such a feat, reaching her destination with none the wiser to her true identity.

  In those short moments as she gazed over the sea of rooftops, she felt no remorse. The city could have been hers had she stayed behind to marry Lord Rhal. But no city, not even Kastali Dun with all its rumored splendor, could make up for a stolen life.

  “Finished, have you?” The cook’s voice startled her. She was staring at her pile of minced onion.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, gal. Get those into the boiling broth. Quick, now.” He pointed his butcher’s knife at the largest hearth where a cauldron was bubbling. She followed orders, making several trips to get all the onion into the liquid.

  The cook watched her with narrowed eyes. Happy with her performance, he directed her to a mound of potatoes nearly as tall as she. “When you finish with those, you may be dismissed.”

  Eager to end the day, she began piling potatoes into her apron, which she treated as a hammock, before unloading them onto the long wooden table which doubled as her work space. Like the other cuttings, the potatoes were for the stew, a common staple food at Fort Squall. There were many hungry mouths to feed, and with patrol teams coming and going all hours of the day, prepared food was kept on hand: porridge in the morning replaced by stew in the afternoon.

  The sun was sinking low to the horizon when she completed her tasks. Rising from the bench, she groaned and stretched to relieve her muscles. Her back hurt from hunching, her face was raw from hovering over the fire, and her fingers were nicked everywhere.

  Bidding the cook farewell, she departed. No sooner had she rounded a corner did she stop dead in her tracks. Cold dread took root within the pit of her stomach. There was a voice, velvety smooth, deep in conversation. She recognized it. Creeping into the shadows, she tip-toed further down the corridor and peaked around its corner. There stood Byron with another Drengr. He was dressed in beige leggings and a green tunic, his long sverak strapped majestically to his side.

  Her heart jumped in her chest. If Byron spotted her, if he saw her unique eyes, if he realized that she was not among the line of volunteers he selected in Redport, he would recognize her for who she truly was. Her fake name would do little to shield her when that happened.

  “I tell you, it is unlike anything I have felt,” she heard him say. “Strange as it is, I cannot explain it.”

  She needed to run, to get as far from him as possible.

  “I felt it in Redport too, stronger than ever. It died down when I left. But it has returned, and for the last week it has plagued me.”

  She turned on her heels and sprinted away, making very little noise. When she arrived to her small living quarters, she all but tumbled inside, slamming the door behind her to lean against it. There she caught her breath, breathing deeply, letting her chest rise and fall to calm her nerves.

  It was a close call. In the last week, she encountered Byron a total of four times. Each unlikely meeting conjured fear, leaving her unsettled. Thank the gods luck was with her. With every new day her dread grew. If Byron saw her, if he learned that she was betrothed to Lord Rhal, he would send her away. She couldn’t go home, not when she had come so far.

  “You had better be more careful next time, Tamara Redwynn,” she said, her voice shaky and weak. “Traipsing around corridors without watching your step will get you into trouble.”

  Currently she was alone in her room. The chamber before her was small and housed four cots, each with adjacent shelving. A single wash basin stood near the entryway, and a long looking glass was propped against the back wall. Three other volunteers shared the space with her. They came to the fort for the same reason, with the same dreams as she, to become a Rider.

  Lara and Kiviana were in their twenties, beautiful, and everything a Rider ought to look like, but they were mean. She strongly disliked their subtle remarks regarding her age and the way they snickered behind her back. “She can’t possibly think of becoming a Rider,” Lara whispered to Kiviana the second morning within the fort. They were on their way out of the chamber for their daily duties. Both women giggled as they shut the door. “Who would want a child like that for a mate?” Kiviana said loudly enough to be heard through the walls.

  “They are just jealous,” Sophie told her after the women left. “They are jealous of your beautiful eyes.” She loved Sophie ever since.

  Sophie was closer in age to her. Moreover, she was convinced that Sophie had come from noble birth, for she did not talk like a commoner. Sophie was also spirited, smiled frequently, and was always optimistic. It was easy to adore someone like that, especially when that someone reminded her of Josie, the only friend she left behind in Redport.

  She could not say how long she stood surveying her room before a firm pressure on her back told her somebody was trying to enter. She hoped it was not Lara or Kiviana. She heard Sophie’s muffled voice and stepped aside.

  Sophie burst into the room looking more frenzied than Tamara had felt after seeing Byron. She was out of breath, her face was flushed, and her eyes were wide. “Amber,” she gasped. “You will never believe it!”

  “Believe what?” She was alarmed. Had someone discovered her secret? Her throat became very dry and she had to swallow several times.

  “Oh, it is the best news. I can hardly believe it myself.” Sophie took her arm and pulled her to the center of the room. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. “I was on my way here when I heard a peculiar conversation. I stopped to politely inquire—oh, I cannot wait any longer!” she cried. She was bouncing up and down on her toes now. “Tomorrow there is to be a Touching Ceremony. Cannarth’s Rider Rene told me! The fort leader announced it just minutes before that.”

  Sophie rushed away and dramatically threw herself upon Tamara’s cot, struggling to contain her elation. As she watched Sophie, her brow scrunched together. It was confusing. What in the name of every god was a Touching Ceremony? It sounded barbaric. She certainly did not want anyone touching her.

  Sophie bur
st into hysterical laughter, sitting up. “They do not touch you, silly Amber. You touch them!”

  “Them? Who is them? I still do not understand, Sophie. What exactly is a Touching Ceremony?”

  “Gods above, Amber. For someone with such dreams, you know very little about the Drengr.” She said it kindly, but shook her head in disbelief. “Don’t you want to be a Rider?”

  “Yes. More than anything!”

  Sophie nodded. “I thought so. Very well. Good thing you have me.” She flashed a pleased grin before continuing. “A Touching Ceremony,” she explained, “is a formal ceremony to recognize mates.”

  Mates. She wanted to become a Drengr’s mate. She wanted that very much.

  “Tomorrow, the riderless Drengr, those without mates, will assemble on the field between the city and the fort, and we the hopefuls, will have an opportunity to lay a hand upon their scales, for that is how a bond is recognized.”

  “Truly?” she breathed. The thrilling idea took hold. Excitement coursed through her. Touching a Drengr. Discovering a mate. Becoming a Rider. “But how?” she wondered. “How do you know? What happens?”

  Sophie took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders and swinging her legs over the cot so she could sit straight. “Havadan slatir takenna slakev, tivi gedi gara ein, an hilgar asamat ut ken.”

  Goosepimples prickled her skin as the words washed over her. They were strange, harsh, and foreign. Sophie struggled as she spoke them, as if the pronunciation did not come naturally for her. To Tamara, the words were all garbled; they made no sense. She shook her head and opened her mouth to protest. Sophie cut her off in a sing-song voice. “When skin touches scale, two minds become one, the sacred bond is unveiled.” It was a poem of some kind.

  “But…”

  “It is a translation from the old language,” Sophie said. “You are not meant to understand the old words. I cannot remember the rest of the poem, only that. I have repeated it to myself many times.”

  “How—how do you know those words?” As far as she knew, only magic folk spoke the old language.

  Sophie smiled proudly. “My great grandmother was a Rider. I never knew her. But she taught her daughter, that would be my grandmother, some words. They were mostly poems and sayings, a few songs too.”

  “Wow,” she breathed.

  “Anyway, if you touch a Drengr tomorrow, you will know, just like it says, ‘Two minds become one.’”

  “But Sophie, if your great grandmother was a Rider, surely you will be too. Drengr blood flows in your veins.”

  Sophie shook her head. “Her daughter was not so fortunate. When my grandmother failed too many times, she left the fort discouraged, fell in love, married a minor lord, and had my father.” Sophie frowned and shook her head. “If her own daughter could not do it, there is no guarantee that her great granddaughter can,” she whispered. “But I must try. I must try.”

  “I thought females born to the Drengr became Riders,” she said.

  “Not always, Amber. Not always.”

  They spent the entire evening engrossed in speculation. She learned many things, the most frightening of them was the ceremony generally occurred once every three years. That did little to calm her nerves or bolster her confidence, for if she failed, she would have to wait a long time to try again. She picked at her supper, unable to eat. While Sophie’s excitement was eager, hers was anxious.

  Part of her was envious of Sophie, who had Drengr blood. That would increase her chances, surely. While she wanted very much for Sophie to succeed, she too wanted to succeed and felt disadvantaged. Moreover, her age had her second guessing her fate.

  That night, sleep never came. She tossed and turned like a fish on dry land. And when dawn arrived, she could hardly dress.

  As the day progressed, she completed her duties with growing anxiety, trying her best to forget the upcoming ordeal. Her nerves interfered with everything, leaving her shaky and uncertain. She cut her finger twice because of it, the second time so badly that she had to bandage it repeatedly to stop the bleeding. Privy to her struggle, the cook left her to stir the simmering broths, which made her hair frizzy and her face sooty. Increasingly clumsy, she dropped the ladle onto the hot coals then burned her hand when retrieving it. By mid-morning, she accepted that the day would be an absolute disaster. No Drengr would want her, despite her mind’s argument about fate.

  When the cook’s patience was spent, he sent her away to wash windows. “It is normal to be nervous, dear gal,” he told her kindly. “But let’s keep you from the knife and the fire today.”

  Washing windows was tedious work, she had to haul buckets of water from the well and back until her arms ached. In fact, more time was spent retrieving water, than scrubbing the glass. She was returning for the umpteenth time when she heard a voice cry out, causing her to slosh water all down her front. “You there!” it said. It came from behind her and worse still, she recognized it.

  “Not now,” she whispered, continuing at a faster pace than before, causing cold liquid to slosh from the bucket and drench her. What if when she was so close, her plan failed? The thought was dreadful. She gripped the the bucket tightly to her chest, pretending to hear nothing.

  “Please, miss!” Byron cried, closer now. “I insist you stop!” She did not. Hurried footsteps caught up to hers. A hand grabbed her arm. She was forced to halt.

  For a moment, the world froze in its place, and then the hand pulled her around. She came face to face with Byron. The moment he beheld her ice-blue eyes, his own widened. “I knew it!” he cried triumphantly, though slightly out of breath. “I knew it was you. You’re the girl from under the willow tree.”

  Alarmed, she stayed still. She could not have moved had she wanted to. Her fear was paralyzing.

  “You have beautiful eyes. I would recognize them anywhere.” The compliment caught her off guard. She was too afraid to stammer a thank you.

  Byron studied her, taking in her dirtied face, the state of her clothing, the water soaking her front. Her hair, messy as it was, fell everywhere. Uninvited he reached forward for a better look, moving a lock of it away from her face. His fingertips brushed her skin. Sensation erupted where the contact was made: Little tingles spread across her cheekbone.

  His brow furrowed. “Incredible,” he whispered. “Absolutely incredible.” He studied her with fiery curiosity, his eyes dancing with amusement. Hers were pretty, but not so pretty to earn the kind of attention he paid her now.

  She stepped away from him, confused, and still fearful of discovery. Would he send her home? After coming so far, after achieving so much, was it all lost?

  The reclamation of her arm must have steadied him. He shook his head and regained his composure, placing his hands upon his hips in a wide stance. The amusement, however, never left his gaze. “Tell me, Amber, how is it I find you here in Fort Squall, when I do not recall selecting you from the line of volunteers that night in Redport?”

  Weight like heavy stones dropped into the pit of her stomach. “I…you...” She tried to formulate an excuse. Instead she stuttered like an idiot.

  He smiled wide, revealing a charming set of brilliant white teeth. They were not pointed and large as they would be in his dragon form, yet they were perfectly even and level. He was laughing at her! She tried to stammer through her shock. What was so funny? He held up his hands in submission. “Calm down, girl, I will keep your secret.”

  “My—my secret?”

  “Oh yes. Clearly you never handled your responsibilities that night.” She did not miss his meaning. Much of their conversation under the willow tree revolved around her impending responsibilities. “Believe me, if I could run from mine, I would. Rest easy. I will not tell anyone you came without my permission.”

  “You—you will not send me home?” She was astonished and relaxed her shoulders.

  “No. But on one condition. I would like to play a little game. I am a betting man, you see.” He flashed her a grin that screamed mischief. “At
first I believed your age had you sneaking around, that it kept you from volunteering. But no, you were at the celebration, so you must be at least fifteen.”

  He put a hand on his chin and rubbed his stubble, feigning deep thought. “So then, what is it that has you sneaking?”

  She maintained silence.

  “How about this?” He held her gaze, letting the suspense deepen. “I will make a guess regarding the responsibilities that drove you away from Redport. If I guess correctly, I get one kiss. If I guess incorrectly, you can keep your secrets, and I will plague you no further.”

  Her face flushed, and frustration replaced worry. His offer was unfair. A kiss? What kind of gentlemen asked a lady for such things?

  He placed a hand over his heart. “I swear myself to silence if you agree, but if you do not…” He was smiling wider than ever, loving his little game. Like cornered prey, she had no choice.

  “Okay,” she squeaked like a mouse.

  “Excellent.” He shuffled his weight from one leg to the other, crossing his arms. “Hmm. Under the willow tree you admitted to running from your responsibilities. That was why you bumped into me, was it not? That was how our acquaintance began.” He was clearly contemplating his thoughts. “Yes, you were running from something. A person, yes?” The glint in his eyes did not deceive. The moment he looked into hers, she knew she had lost. “I am going to guess it was a certain lord?”

  She swallowed. “How—how do you know?”

  He clicked his tongue and shook his finger. “That, Amber, is not how the game works. Yes or no will suffice.”

  “Yes.”