Cyrus, I never signed up for this, she reminded him, as if he didn’t already know. I never wanted this. She got up from the bed, opening the doors that led to her balcony. The sea breeze greeted her. There she gazed out over the open ocean. Dragonwall was beautiful, but no matter how much everyone claimed she belonged, she missed her old home, her parents, her friends, the simplicity of life.
In helping Cyrus, she’d become part of something she hardly understood, something greater than herself. She knew so little about her true potential, about her true self, the part of her that was tied to Dragonwall, the part of her that was never meant for a mundane existence. What was she supposed to do next? How could she chart a path when she didn’t understand her own capabilities? Her own strength?
Cyrus, who am I? Who am I supposed to be?
She recalled that Cyrus once said some things are better left discovered in time. Yet there was so much to learn. Worse still, they were running out of time!
Time is relative when considering the importance of self-discovery...
Her conversation with Reyr came to mind. Reyr believed Cyrus knew something more, something that spurred his decisions before his death. She agreed. What did Cyrus see in Saffra’s mind? What allowed him to trust her? He willingly handed over the Stones when so much rested on their safety.
You want to know if I saw your future in Saffra’s mind?
She desperately wanted to know. She clung to the hope that truth would make things easier. And after everything she’d done for him, he owed it to her.
Truth never makes things easier, Claire. But I will tell you anyway. I never saw your future. I only saw your potential, your heart, your goodness, and your importance. It was enough.
Her chest pounded fiercely. She’d been convinced that some inescapable destiny awaited her, and that Cyrus had seen it. A sigh of relief escaped her chest. If there was no certainty, maybe what Saffra saw was only a single possibility amongst many. There was still time to choose a different path, a safer path.
Your old life awaits you. If you so choose it, you may go back. But Dragonwall would be a lesser place without you, a hopeless place, darker without your presence.
With those few words, the possibility vanished like a sinking boat in deep water. Pressure returned to her chest; it was as if she were on that boat as it dragged her down. Her mind looked upward and saw nothing but water, with only a glint of sunshine.
But she wasn’t the only one struggling to accept reality. Cyrus was fighting too, clawing at his restraints as if reaching the surface were possible. For him it wasn’t. He could not be free.
Before I died, Claire, I despaired. In those moments, I realized my soul would not reach the afterlife. Passing it along to you was the only way to succeed. They call it the Gift, but it is hardly. A curse perhaps. A Drengr is never meant to dwell within the being of a human.
His words were like a knife to her stomach. She felt his anguish as if it were her own. Because of her, he’d cheated himself. He’d given up his hope of resting in peace. Now he was forced to be with her until death. He could not go and rest with his forefathers, nor could he go be with Leeana, his mate.
A tear freed itself, falling down her cheek. She angrily wiped it away. Why did he do it? Why did he trap himself when he could have passed peacefully into the other realm? He deserved better than what she could give. It wasn’t fair for either of them.
My soul was a Gift to save the ones I love. Sometimes one must sacrifice oneself for the greater good. What is my soul compared to thousands?
Her heart broke a little more. Most of the people in Dragonwall didn’t deserve his selfless sacrifice. Few would truly understand what he’d given up. Yet his act still didn’t explain the imperative need behind his choice. Why did it take his soul to save Dragonwall?
Someday you will understand how powerful you truly are. Yours is an old blood, a strong blood. The forces within you were a part of this land long before the Drengr arrived. Alone, you will never realize what lies within you, you will never call upon yourself for what you truly are. You need my strength, my knowledge, my abilities, to lead you to answers. Together we carry the hope of defeating Kane and driving evil from our kingdom. Remember that. Only together.
She was stunned. Cyrus did know more—a lot more—and he wasn’t going to tell her. Yet somehow she already knew. Saffra’s vision wasn’t mere happenstance. She shook her head as the realization sank in. It couldn’t be…it wasn’t fair. There had to be another way. “I don’t know how to do magic yet,” she whispered. She could name quite a few people better qualified for a job she knew was intended for her: King Talon, Queen Jade, the Magoi, the Shields…
“Cyrus, I can’t do it. Even if I wanted to, I’m not ready.” Panic consumed her. “Don’t make me do this.” She tried to breathe, but the air was void of oxygen. She was still sinking with the ship. Worse still, the sea was oblivious to her struggle. Its blue waters sparkled under the sun’s light.
Cyrus poured his strength and understanding into her thoughts.
Claire, no one is ever ready to do what fate asks of them. We do not get to choose our destiny. It finds us, just like I found you. Do you ever wonder why it was your cornfield I fell into? Why it was you who rescued me when anyone else could have been watching?
Of course she wondered. Not a day went by when deep inside she wasn’t asking, “Why me?” It was the same question she asked when she fell face-first in the cornfield trying to rescue Cyrus, and the same question she asked now.
Destiny gives us purpose; destiny gives us a place in the world; destiny gives us an existence. Your destiny is simply more monumental than others. You cannot ignore it, for that would be a travesty.
“So I have no choice.”
There is always a choice, Claire. One way or another, you must face the obstacles placed before you. That is how you come to know your true self. Only then will you truly answer the heaviest questions upon your heart.
“In so doing, I will discover who I am.” The purpose of this entire conversation became clear.
You asked me earlier, ‘Who am I? Who am I supposed to be?’ Now you have your answer. All that remains is your decision. Will you chase your destiny and discover your true self? Or will you return home, never knowing if you might have saved a dying kingdom? There is always a choice...
She took a deep breath then sighed reluctantly. A choice there might have been, but she had made hers. Even without thinking, she knew what she needed to do. “It doesn’t make it any easier,” she thought. Life was never meant to be easy. Cyrus didn’t need to tell her that. Even still she hated what she next said, “If this is my destiny, then I accept it.”
And therein lies the reason this is your destiny and not another’s. Although you have decided, fate knew your answer long before you gave it. And I knew it too, else I never would have made you promise...
The promise. Everything came back to the promise. She shook her head, incredulous to how this played out, to how it had circled back around. Her new life began with a promise. It would finish with one too.
Her throat constricted. She knew what she needed to do. Taking a deep breath, she spoke, “I, Claire Evans, make an Unbreakable Promise”—just like she did before Cyrus died—“I promise to avenge Cyrus’s death. I promise to kill the sorcerer who calls himself Kane. In so doing, I will see the kingdom restored to its full glory. I promise this with all my heart. I will fulfill this task with the power entrusted to me, or die trying.”
The moment she closed her mouth, her body began to tingle. It recognized the magic she called upon. At that same instant, the world around her gave witness. The seagulls squawked as they flew past the cliffs. The sea crashed upon the rocks beneath her harder than ever. The wind picked up frantically, whistling past her ears. The world responded. It spoke to her saying: it is done, you have promised, and the fate of Dragonwall goes with you.
59
Kastali Dun
Reyr did not
move, not even to shift his feet. He stood as still as stone, hands clasped behind his back. If he appeared at ease, he was anything but. His fellow Shields stood upon the platform beside him, and before them, King Talon. Everything was ready: the high block, the axe, the executioner, and the crowd. All that remained was the spectacle.
He turned his gaze to the threatening sky before bringing it down upon the gathered audience. Men, women, and children stood in wait. The rich and the poor were assembled. Many had come. He disapproved of the fairer sex witnessing the event. And children? They were far too young to see such things—too young to understand: The excited buzz of voices told them something worthwhile was about to happen, so they displayed the same eagerness.
He heard cries from the peddlers, “Buns for sale! Three steelys each! Cheap ale, too!” This was good for business (for the peddlers). People craved entertainment.
He was glad of Claire’s confinement. As a safe measure, he had locked her door. She was stubborn enough to find herself disguised within the crowd. The possibility forced his regard upon the sea of faces. He picked through them, looking for a flash of green eyes, or a hint of golden hair. But how impractical! He’d used more than a key to ensure her door would not open. She did not need to witness the deaths of men whose names she had given.
Gemma would have approved of his caution. Gods! Why did he think of her so often? Why now? Hundreds of years allowed her name to sink into the depths of his soul. Claire’s sudden appearance into his life unburied what should have stayed down. She was too much like his beloved, and in ways that were unfair to his heart.
“Make way!” A powerful voice lifted above the rest. Captain Jonas appeared. The captain was an older fellow, but his age in no way hindered him. Well seasoned, having lived through the Gobelin Wars, he commanded the keep’s guard with honor.
“In the name of the king—I say—make way!” He led his men forward through the crowd as though in battle, and in a sense, it was. Their shields and spears pressed and pushed, vying for space. At last the onlookers fell back. An aisle formed. Through that passage came the traitors, surrounded by soldiers. These weren’t the first traitors Captain Jonas led to the chopping block, but they were certainly the worst.
Traitors deserved no recognition. Allowing them their identity was a form of praise. Their faces were covered with black cloth sacks. Their bodies however, were left uncovered. This nakedness illustrated their shame.
He clenched his jaw. The true shame was, Euen Doyle and Stefan Rosen could not appreciate the gravity of the situation, for they were too incoherent. They would not despair. They would not weep during their last moments. They would not pay a fair price for their deceit. There wasn’t enough of them left.
As they passed through the crowd with their guards, the gathered masses screamed gleefully. They pointed. They laughed. They snarled and called. Little good it did: the traitors were too senseless to understand. The audience was impatient, and even eager, but not he. He took no joy in death, no matter how well deserved. He would be glad when this ended.
Guards filed onto the platform. The noise elevated to new heights; the naked, faceless men were presented to the crowd. Still he did not move. Talon stepped forward, lifting his hands. A hush fell upon them. “Citizens of the crown,” he said, his voice echoing. The city’s square—where all public executions took place—was surrounded by buildings on all sides. “There are traitors in our midst!”
Disgusted cries came from the crowd. “Traitor!” someone screeched. “Traitor!” others repeated.
“The two men before you have betrayed us. In so doing, they have betrayed the gods. What is the just punishment for their crimes?”
“Death!” a loud voice cried in answering. “Death!” repeated the onlookers, chanting, “Death!”
King Talon let them continue, turning instead to the executioner. He gave Sir Boris Patrice a nod. The gnarled man stepped forward, positioning himself beside the highblock. He’d seen enough fighting for a lifetime, earning his position fairly. Reasonable men turned down the opportunity to kill. Not Boris. He enjoyed killing. Perhaps the king liked him more for it, and for the eyepatch disguising the empty socket where his left eye once was, and for his missing left ear, and for his missing forefinger.
With a simple flick of King Talon’s hand, Euen Doyle was brought forward. The guards positioned him before the block. “Kneel,” came the command. Euen Doyle did not respond. Perhaps he was too senseless to do even the simplest task. “I said, kneel.” The guard did not wait for a response this time. He put his boot into Doyle’s knee, forcing the man down. Thereafter, he positioned him with his head forward over the block.
“A traitor deserves no last words,” King Talon said.
The chant of the crowd continued. “Death!” it said.
The king looked at Boris, affording him a brief nod. Boris reached forward and removed the sack upon Doyle’s head. Then he heaved his axe high in the air, disguising its weight with effortless movement. With a single sweeping stroke, the axe came down hard upon its victim. The thud of Doyle’s head went unheard as it fell upon the wooden planks. The crowd was too loud. Reyr watched it roll forward once, and then twice, before coming to a stop. The unseeing eyes held no shock. And so ended the life of the first traitor.
As quickly as before, Stefan Rosen was brought forth. “Kneel,” said the guard. Perhaps Rosen was more coherent, for he followed the order. The guard pushed his body forward so that his neck was firmly in place upon the block. Boris took his position once more. A hush fell over the crowd for a second time. Even the pigeons in the square ceased their flight.
“Mercy!” An anguished cry drew the attention of many. “Mercy, my king. Mercy!” He gazed out over the crowd, his brow furrowed. The voice he recognized. Whispers of confusion spread through the spectators. “Mercy!” The crowd stepped aside. A woman staggered forward, pushing her way through. Lady Caterina had come to petition her father. This last effort would be fruitless.
“Mercy, Your Majesty.” With each petition, she gazed upon the king, her face anguished. She reached the steps of the platform and stumbled up them like a drunkard, tripping upon her gown. Her face was tear-streaked. King Talon did not move at first. He was too shocked. They all were. Lady Caterina’s audacity had taken on new heights.
“Please!” Caterina threw herself down before King Talon. She sobbed into his boot, clutching at him. “Please, Your Majesty. Spare him. Give him mercy!”
The king’s face hardened. He turned and nodded at the guards. Two rushed forward, dragging Caterina to her feet. She continued to weep. King Talon then addressed her. “Do you not see, Lady Caterina? What I offer your father is mercy.”
“No!” she said, crying still. She would have collapsed had the guards not held her in place. “Please, Your Majesty, have you no room in your heart to hear my plea? Have you no affection for me whatsoever? I beg of you, mercy!”
Reyr rolled his eyes.
“Affection, Lady Caterina? Hardly. Now stand down.” With a second nod, the guards dragged her back, holding her up. She was forced to watch.
“Father!” She cried out desperately. Stefan Rosen recognized her voice somehow, despite his lost mind. He straightened, lifting his chest to look around, unseeing.
“Get back down, you!” Rosen’s guard pushed his chest back into place. The king gave the order. Boris pulled the sack away then lifted his massive axe high in the air. He brought it down hard. Caterina’s piercing shriek was hardly audible. The screams of the crowd weighed more. The moment her father’s head struck the wooden platform, the guards released her. She fell into a heap of fabric upon the planks of the platform, her gown fluffed around her. There she sobbed profusely, ignored by all…her lowest moment.
He frowned. A daughter should never see her father’s death, no matter the reason, no matter how well deserved. His heart did not break for her, but his honor did. Those around him began to dispense. He went to her, helping her to her feet. Then he
looked up. “You there,” he said, motioning for two guards to assist him. “Take this lady back to her chambers. See that she has what she needs.”
When he turned, he noticed Verath’s intent gaze upon him. His fellow Shield stood scowling. Curiosity arose within him. Did Verath disapprove? “Was I wrong to take pity upon her?”
Verath was quiet a moment then he said, “You pity too easily. I do not think Caterina is honest. I do not think she can be trusted.” Without another word, Verath turned away and descended the platform. He was left to puzzle over the meaning. Verath knew something—something he did not. He quickly caught up, accompanying Verath back to the keep.
“What have you learned, then?”
Verath shrugged. “Something that disturbs me. I will bring it to the king’s attention.”
“And must I wait until you do?”
“Aye. I would like to do a little digging of my own first.”
He was left to ponder the issue. If Caterina’s father was a traitor and Verath distrusted her, then perhaps the apple did not fall far from the tree. He never liked the woman. Still he had hoped there were redeemable traits within her. One of his shortcomings was that he always wished the best in others. That was the true reason he stayed his hand when Jovari and Koldis insisted Claire was guilty and demanded she be killed. And that turned out all right, did it not?
When he returned to the keep, he went straight to the cookery. “Tess, where might I find Desaree?”
“My Lord Reyr, do I look like a homing pigeon to you?”
He smirked. “Hardly, my dear Tess. You are far too beautiful.”
Tess crossed her arms, pretended to be mad for only a moment, and then smiled her famous radiant smile. “Oh, very well. She is assigned to the north wing. You will find her there.”
“Excellent. I hope you do not mind if I borrow her for the afternoon. Also, might I get a tray of food?” The cookery kept food on hand for hungry mouths—usually stew or bread and cheese. “I think Claire might be hungry.”
Talon the Black Page 55