Kastali Dun
Saffra was taken before the king, albeit after a good deal of arguing with his guards. It only fueled her agitation.
"Your coming troubles me." The king tossed his quill on the desk, abandoning his task to gaze at her. Braziers cast dancing light around his study and long shadows over his scars. The balcony doors were thrown open much the same as they usually were, admitting the soft sea breeze beyond.
"Your Grace," she said, licking her lips. "I...I apologize for disturbing you. I know your burdens are great." She glanced down where his quill lay discarded. A role of parchment stretched across the desk's surface. Good gods! Had he been working all night? She clenched her robe more tightly about her chest.
"My burdens are indeed great, Lady Saffra. And it seems you wish to bring me another."
She offered him a weak nod. It wasn't as if she asked for her visions—as if this was her fault. Images rushed back to her. Cyrus falling. The sickening crunch of his body slamming into the ground. She winced, reliving it. Her body trembled in response.
"Gods above!" King Talon rushed to his feet and retrieved a cloak from the corner of his study. He threw it about her shoulders, guiding her to the extra chair at his desk. "What have you seen?"
"Cyrus, Your Grace." The words were a weak whisper. "I saw Cyrus."
"You saw him!" The king's eyes widened a measure before he regained composure. "He is alive then?"
"I...do not know. I think..." She faltered.
King Talon loved his Shields. They were brothers to him, his only family.
"I see." His face fell. She had not come to bring him hope. "Tell me what you saw. It is not wise to worry me."
She exhaled. "Cyrus is gravely injured, Your Grace, perhaps dead..."
King Talon's chair slid out from behind him, skidding across the floor as he stood. "What did you see? How do you know this?" He ran a hand through his mangy hair, smoothing the thick tufts aside. She swallowed against the dryness of her throat, trying to ignore her racing heart. "Well?"
"I tried Scrying, Your Grace."
The scars on his face turned silvery-white. "And?"
"I hope what I saw isn't true." But it was. The gods wouldn't have shown her otherwise. She proceeded to describe her vision exactly as she saw it, starting with Cyrus, moving through each scene she witnessed before ending with the thief's red eyes.
King Talon ignored every part except for what concerned Cyrus. She could not fault him for it. "After Cyrus fell, did he live? Did he survive?"
She shut her eyes, unable to bear his fear. A tear slid down her cheeks. "I cannot say, Your Grace."
"He must be alive!" he insisted. "I would have felt his death. I would have known."
"You are certain?" she asked, opening her eyes to find his. Silver with little flecks of gold. The only beautiful facet of an otherwise ruined face.
"I am certain."
She blew out the breath she'd been holding. One small mercy. "Your Grace..." She hesitated. "There is something else."
"Have you not subjected me to enough?" Another tear broke free. She tried to clench the king's cloak more tightly about her shoulders, to hide her trembling. King Talon reclaimed his chair. He slumped down in a very unkingly-like manner. "Very well. Out with it."
"Cyrus is no longer in Dragonwall."
"I do not understand your meaning." His expression did not change.
"My meaning is as I have said it, Your Grace. Cyrus is no longer in our kingdom. He is no longer in our world."
His eyes widened. "That's impossible."
"I do not think so. Cyrus traveled through the Gate. I saw it—the Kengr Gate."
The king fell silent. His eyes went unfocused, unseeing. She'd seen the look before. He was communicating telepathically with his Shields—telling them of Cyrus.
He leaned back against his chair. "Why would Cyrus resort to such madness? Why would he travel through the Gate?"
She opened her mouth, then closed it. There was no sensible reason—none that she could think of. The gates were portals. Each led Beyond. Laws against their use were put in place at the forming of the monarchy. Some said it was to keep people from disappearing. But the real truth was, it protected Dragonwall from whatever came through. No one knew what lands lay beyond, and not a soul cared to learn.
"And the thief?" his question brought her mind back to the present. "Do you think he is responsible for this mess?"
"I..." She shook her head. "I don't know. I only saw his eyes—his blood red eyes." She could neither confirm nor deny the thief's involvement. Red eyes in a vision offered little in the way of answers, but her gut feeling suggested he was to blame.
The king fell into a broody silence.
She glanced around his study, affording him time to think. Her eyes fell on the cream curtains fluttering in the early morning air. The sky was a dull gray. Dawn was approaching.
His voice made her jump. "He can't be dead. Perhaps he was simply unconscious when he fell. There is still hope."
"I shall pray, Your Grace, I shall pray for his safe return."
"Reyr..." His voice was little more than a whisper. "I hope Reyr finds him." He sighed and turned his gaze towards the curtains and balcony beyond. His tower had seven at various levels.
"He's been gone a long time," she mused. When Cyrus had failed to return, King Talon sent Reyr, Jovari, and Koldis after him. Only Bedelth and Verath remained in the capital. The king could not risk sending any more of his personal guards.
"Indeed." The king sighed. "Far too long."
"Do you think he will know to follow Cyrus through the Gate?" she wondered.
"It is all we can hope for, Lady Saffra." There was a long silence.
"So...what are we to do now?" she asked. She wiped another stray tear. Cyrus was like a brother to her. Her heart ached.
"We must inform the Lower Council. We have hidden this matter long enough. I will need you present—to fulfill your duty."
Her muscles went taught. "Very well. If you command it. May I be excused?" She stood before allowing the him to answer, discarding his cloak upon the chair.
"Yes. Yes...of course." His voice sounded pained and far away.
He didn't see her as she curtsied and bid him farewell. She fled the tower for the open corridor beyond, wishing none of this had happened. Would that she could leave it behind as easily as the keep's corridors as she exited out into the open morning.
The sun was not yet free of the horizon. The breeze rustling in the open courtyard dried her remaining tears. With a tormented mind, she crossed through the south wing's courtyard and made her way back to her chambers.
Being indoors only smothered her. She paced back and forth, breathing ragged. Any moment she might burst into tears all over again if she did not find something to occupy her mind.
Making up her mind, she summoned Jocelyn. With her welcome aid, she dressed quickly. "I think I will go to the archery range this morning."
"You look rather distraught, my lady. Won't you rest here and let me bring you some chamomile tea?"
"I am fine, Jocelyn. Truly. Fresh air will be the best remedy for me."
Jocelyn didn't ague, even if she appeared conflicted.
When she reached the practice field, the keep was still quiet. Dawn light was just breaking upon the horizon. She picked out her favorite target range then set about her bow, stringing it. Withdrawing the first arrow, she loaded it. In one fluid motion, she drew the bowstring then released. She could hear the arrow whistle through the air. It landed with a thud on the target. Her aim was true. It struck dead center.
There was a time when she was terrible at this. Had it not been for her superb trainer, she never would have reached the level of skill she now possessed. Daxton was an expert in all matters of warfare, specifically that of dealing death efficiently.
She fondly recalled her first lesson with him. She was only ten, and he a soldier of nineteen. Even then she admired him despite his brazen attitude, his excessive cockiness, and his disdain for teaching a female, especially a little girl, in matters that were better left to men.
Her mind raced backwards in time. It was scarcely a year since her arrival at the keep. The grand mage gifted her a bow and set of arrows as a positive distraction, so that she might have an outlet for her mind. He also hired Daxton to be her archery tutor. Daxton was to train her once per week.
It was no surprise that she took to him—all women did—and despite her young age, such a thing could not be helped. The day he introduced himself, she remembered watching him demonstrate the use of a bow. Worshiped was the best way to describe how she studied his strong arms and broad chest, blushing as she watched.
Needless to say, she performed terribly. How embarrassed she'd been! He made her so awfully nervous. Yet, her poor performance left her more determined to prove herself. In time she did, but he never got to see it: Daxton went off to defend Dragonwall in the Gobelin Wars shortly after their lessons began. By the time he returned, years later, he was surprised to see that she had become quite good. They became friends after that. And then something more had blossomed.
Her mind moved back to the present. The sun—now free of the horizon—cast its golden rays upon the grass, illuminating the field in a beautiful glow. It did not take her long to fire all of her arrows at the target. When the quiver was empty, she retrieved them and began anew.
No number of arrows could quell her worry, though the activity certainly helped. With the proper distraction, she could somewhat divert her mind. And so she fired one after another, each landing in the cluster at the center of the target.
"Determined this morning, are we?" A deep voice sounded—one she well recognized. She was in the middle of pulling her bowstring taught for the umpteenth time.
She smiled as she released, holding her form. Her eyes watched the arrow soar high into the air before it landed beside the others. Only then did she take up her most alluring smile and turn to address the speaker. "Good morning, Commander."
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, eying her with amusement. His dark burgundy doublet was sleeveless, showing off his tanned arms so full of strength. The vest clung to his body just enough to exemplify his broad, seasoned chest. Embroidered in silver on his right breast was the Drengr monarchy's sigil—a dragon head.
"Commander? Must I always insist that you call me Dax, my lady?"
She chuckled. "Until you call me Saffra, Commander, I will continue to use your proper title."
"Fair enough." A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "I must say, I am surprised to find you here so early, and alone. Is it your determination that spurs such motivation, or something else? Perhaps, someone else?"
His hint did not go unnoticed. Her eyes circled the practice grounds only to find that they were indeed alone. "I might ask you the same question, Commander. Should you not be breaking fast in the barracks with your soldiers?"
"We both know I am the first to arrive on training days."
She knew this. He was always the first to the practice field on training days. Aside from his duties as a war commander, he oversaw the drilling of all new recruits in the king's army.
"I suppose you are correct, sir. You do often arrive first." Again she smiled sweetly before turning away from him to draw another arrow. She refused to admit to her ulterior motives—that she wished to see him, for that was often why she visited the practice fields.
He wasted no time. Before she could properly nock her arrow, his arms were around her, tightly pulling her back against his chest. "Commander Daxton!" She giggled, hardly surprised by his behavior. "Someone might see us!" She tried to struggle away from his grip, but his arms did not relent.
His breath was warm against her ear. "I am happy you came to see me this morning, my lady, but I must warn you against it. If you continue with such behavior, others may become suspicious. I insist that from now on, you be more careful when placing your affections so openly."
"Me? How can you say such nonsense?" She was nearly breathless. "It is your grip I reside within."
"Is that so?" He nuzzled his nose against her neck before releasing her. "I suppose you are correct."
She staggered away from him, drunk with happiness. Once more, her eyes searched the grounds. They were still alone.
Dax took the remaining steps towards her, closing the gap between them. Taking her face in his hands, he planted a gentle kiss upon her lips, making sure to brush her nose with his before pulling away. He bestowed a look of seriousness. "Tell me truly. What brought you out here this morning?"
She sighed as the memory of Cyrus came flooding back. She wanted to tell him what she had seen, but she couldn't bring herself to speak of it again. It was too painful. Instead she shook her head. "I no longer wanted to be in the keep." It was partially true. "I was hoping for a distraction—one that only you could offer."
He smiled. "While I am ever so glad to oblige your desires, my lady, it is best to avoid temptation." He placed another kiss upon her lips. "Now, if you do not object, I must prepare. I have a class to teach." His sweet smile turned into a mischievous grin. With that, he sauntered off to the sparring area. At that very same moment, his students began to arrive. She was left to watch his retreat and admire him from afar.
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