Battle Ground, Indiana
Cyrus jerked awake and blinked up at the ceiling. Everything came flooding back in an instant. His trip to the forest, his fight with Kane, the Vodar, the Gate, Claire. All of it. The faint sound of raised voices drifted to him. He froze, listening. Just voices—nothing more. Certainly not the Vodar. He exhaled and relaxed his muscles.
He pushed his hearing just a little farther, but it wasn't enough to hear what was said. He could have used magic, said words of power to further sharpen his hearing, but it would kill him. No magic, not the smallest trace, could be spared from the effort that was keeping him alive.
He stood, gritting his teeth. It felt like a hot knife twisted within him. His pain was growing unbearable. Taking a step from the bed, he let out an uncontrolled gasp, wincing. It took a good deal of control to keep from crying out again.
He dared not look at the wound. He need not see the poison spreading, for he felt it within him. The oily substance, which had started as a small stream, was quickly turning into a roaring river. When it cut its way through his lifeblood and into his mind, he would die. His magic slowed its advance, but not for long.
He padded barefoot through the girl's dwelling, stopping before the exterior door to listen. Two voices carried, Claire's and another. A male. They argued. He listened a moment longer. Claire was upset.
"...screw you and your excuses, Jake. You said we would make things work between us. You promised me!"
"I tried, Claire. I swear I did. You can't blame me for being lonely."
"Bullshit! I'm the one who wanted to break things off when I visited during spring break, but you swore, you son of a bitch, you swore, we would make it work."
"Claire Bear, I hate for you to be mad at—"
"No! You don't get to call me that. And I'm not mad, I'm furious."
Cyrus clenched his jaw. He shouldn't have, but he did it anyway—he strolled out onto the porch. Something—he couldn't say what—made him oddly protective of her. He walked up beside her. If she was surprised to see him, she gave no sign. "My lady? Are you all right?" He kept his voice low, paying her a sidelong glance. There were red splotches on her cheeks.
Her face relaxed some. "I—I'm fine."
"Who the fuck is this?" Jake looked between them, appraising him.
He sighed, burying his pain deep. With an overly calm voice he said, "My identity is not your concern. You are upsetting Claire. It is time for you to leave."
"Leave?" Jake huffed. "Who d'you think you are, tellin' me what to do? It's a free country, far as I'm concerned. This ain't your house." Jake took several steps towards him.
He did the same until they stood face to face. This time he spoke through clenched teeth, "I will not ask you again. Leave this place at once." His gaze remained fixed on Jake's, looking for any sign of movement within his dull eyes, movement that he would quickly anticipate.
In his line of work, he dealt with his fair share of males like Jake—criminals mostly. They were always the same, get them worked up and they would strike. This one was a steaming kettle.
They eyed each other for several long seconds until Jake tried to bypass him. "Claire, tell this bastard to back the fuck off before he gets himself in trouble." Jake puffed himself up as he spoke. "This is between you and me, not some—"
"Some what?"
"Nosy fucking bastard, that's what." Jake spat a brown substance on the wooden beams beneath his feet.
He stared, disgusted. His fingers reached for Justice before realizing he'd left his Sverak inside. A careless mistake, but no matter. "Right. Well, I tried." Inhaling, he sent his fist through the air and slammed it into the side of Jake's face. The impact sent Jake stumbling backwards until the wretch lost his footing on the stairs and tumbled off the porch. He hadn't intended to use so much force.
Ignoring Claire's gasp, he walked to the stairs. "If you return, you will be the one in trouble. Have I made myself clear?"
Jake's eyes were like daggers, but he knew he'd been beaten. He cupped his quickly-swelling face and staggered to his feet. He took off without a backwards glance, muttering profanities, before climbing into the large metal wagon that needed no horse to pull it.
Cyrus blinked, only just noticing it. A roar sounded before it began moving away. He stared. What inexplicable magic filled this world! He would have to ask Claire about this horseless carriage later. Dragonwall had no such contraptions.
He turned to her. She stood with her mouth hanging open, but she said nothing. A sudden flood of exhaustion inundated him—left him dizzy. Without a word he left, so as not to let her see his pain. He would nurse his wound alone and in silence.
***
Claire found him in his room after dark. "Dinner's ready," she said, knocking quietly from the other side before poking her head in. He'd been resting, but not sleeping. His mind was elsewhere, wandering over better memories, over Leeana.
Gods he missed her. Not a day went by that he didn't recall her silky black hair and dimpled smile, her calming personality and kind heart, and the way she made his happiness soar higher than his wings ever could. He especially longed for her now, when the pain was worse than any physical ailment he had ever experienced, save the feeling of her mind getting ripped from his.
They once held halves of the same consciousness. When she died, his existence was torn apart. The agony of losing a piece of one's self was a form of torture he would never wish upon any living soul. He never thought it would happen to him. His kind were born to feel invincible, it was in their nature.
That made it more unbearable. His loss of Leeana, his Rider, his mate, created a deep void that would never again be filled. How naïve he'd been to believe becoming one of the king's elite, a King's Shield, would distract him. He was wrong, there would be no distraction from his lifelong mourning.
It was said that males should never shed tears, that it was a sign of weakness. Yet he was more dragon than man, and he had cried for many nights—for many years. The world was a darker place without her in it.
"Cyrus?"
His stomach gave a loud grumble. Claire still stood in the doorway, watching him. She took a step into the room and hesitated. "Look, I wanted to thank you for—for chasing Jake off earlier. I know he can be a total douchebag. He never used to be like that. And I hope—"
"Does he abuse you often?"
"What? He—no! I mean, he's never hit me or anything like that."
"Well he might have, had I not stepped in. Many dealings have I had with males like him. Thank the gods I woke up in time. Perhaps Asjaa smiles upon you."
It was the truth. Asjaa did favor her. He knew it with certainty now. The girl had no notion of the secret he carried. He wished he could tell her, but it would be too difficult to explain.
"Asjaa?" her head tilted slightly, freeing a lock of hair that fell across one eye.
"The Mother."
Her brows scrunched together. The gods were different here, he knew enough about this place to know that. The unnecessary explanation had little to do with his point anyway, so he avoided it. "You should stay away from him from now on—away from this Jake—for your own safety."
"I'd be more than happy to." She crossed her arms, and that ended the conversation.
Before sitting down to their evening meal, he again assessed the outer grounds of Claire's home, gazing through various windows to appease his worry. The Vodar would return, he simply did not know when. Justice was strapped to his side and would remain so from now on.
They sat down to a spectacular meal. Claire's skill was impressive. "What did you say this meat was?" he wondered aloud, forgetting his manners through a mouthful.
"Sirloin steak."
He swallowed the succulent red flesh, washing it down with a gulp of fine red wine—far stronger than what he was used to. "We do not have steaks in my world. What do they look like?"
Claire's laughter made him smile. She frequently laughed at his ignorance, not that she could be blamed. He would do the same had their positions been reversed.
"Steaks are not animals, silly. Sirloin steak is a cut of meat—from a cow."
"Cow..." the word was vaguely familiar. Perhaps she had used it before. "We have chickens, goats, grazers, oxen, sheep, antelope, wild boar, pigs..." he tried to recall the wilder animals that were considered delicacies. "We have no cows. What do they look like?"
"They look like—like Tilly and Joe in the stable. Remember? You washed up in their drinking water."
"Oh!" He did remember. "Grazers, then. Only, ours are much larger in girth. And they have huge horns sprouting from their pates." He did an imitation with his fingers, lifting them to his forehead and butting his head forward. She giggled, throwing a hand over her mouth. The sound helped to ease his pain. He continued despite this. "Their coats are that of shaggy fur, not like the hides of your beasts. Mostly they are dark brown, but I once saw a white one." He omitted the part about his friend Reyr hunting it down in one fell swoop, and how he had consumed the beast in mere minutes afterward. He missed Reyr. Truthfully, he missed all of his brothers. And his king, too.
They fell quiet for a short time while they ate. He was too busy devouring what she'd cooked to speak. Besides, he was in no mood for serious conversation. Perhaps Claire perceived this. Rather than asking outright about his mission, she chose a lighter topic: Dragonwall. "My whole life has been spent wishing fantasy worlds like yours existed," she explained, face hungry for knowledge. "I never imagined...that is to say...can you tell me about it?"
"What do you wish to know?"
Her eyes grew large. She smiled wider than he had yet seen. "Everything! Anything. Magic, mostly. Like, how does it work? Can you teach me? Are there spells?" She spoke very rapidly, questions tumbling from her lips. "Can anyone do magic? Or only people of—well, people like you. And what about wands and stuff, like in Harry Potter?"
"Harry, who? I can tell you about magic, if you like."
She nodded.
He started with the Magoi, telling her about the Society. They were the foundation of modern magic, founded at the dawn of the Third Age. "The Society oversees all magical training in Dragonwall. Those of the blood must be trained, or they become dangerous."
A true explanation of magic would take far more time than they had, so he did his best to explain how it worked in a general sense. All magical acts were governed by words, powerful words, that when spoken correctly with proper intent, brought about the actions they stood for.
"And if you string these words together," he explained, "then you have what we call an incant."
"Can you show me?" she breathed.
He sighed. "I'm sorry, but I cannot. I am too weak."
"Oh..." Disappointment reflected in her voice, though she pretended to understand. "What about other beings? Are there other magical creatures besides dragons—I mean Drengr?"
"Aye. Magoi and Drengr are the most common beings, but there are others. Sprites of the forests—we do not see much of them. Nor much of the Dwargs—"
"You mean, dwarves?"
His brow furrowed. "No, I mean Dwargs. There are also Gobelins. They are the nastiest of course."
"Goblins? Shut up!"
"Pardon, my lady?" He frowned. Had he said something wrong?
"I mean—sorry—I didn't actually mean for you to be quiet. I hope I didn't offend you. I was just surprised about the goblins." Her eyes turned dreamy and took on a faraway look. "I've only read about them in stories. But they're real!"
"Aye. We have a great many number of magical beings. And..." He cleared his throat. "It is pronounced Gobelin, not goblin."
"Gobelin," she repeated, making the 'oh' sound more dominant. Her head tilted to the side for a moment. "What about castles? Does everyone live in a castle? Do you live in one?"
He laughed. He couldn't help it. The question seemed absurd. "Of course I do. I work for the king, so I live in the biggest one of all. But no, not everyone lives in a castle."
Her eyes danced. "I love castles. They're so..."
"Stifling? Drafty?"
"I was going to say—"
"Crowded? Oppressive?"
"No! Would you let me finish?!" She sighed. "Well maybe all those things...I guess. You would know better than me. But I was going to say royal I suppose, or magical."
He snorted. "You have never lived in one, then. If the constant presence of people does not get to you, the abundance of stench and stone will."
"I see. What about servants? Are there servants in your castle? And what about jousts? Do you have those? Do the ladies walk around in beautiful gowns? Are there knights? Do they wear tokens of their maiden's love when they fight for their honor?"
"Whoa, whoa. Slow down, my lady. One at at time." Her interest bolstered his spirits. He was more than happy to talk of home, though thinking about Kastali Dun left his heart aching. Too many weeks had passed since beholding the tall turrets and battlements of the Great Keep.
"Okay, stick to the knights then. Or no—the gowns."
"Gowns it is. There are—"
"Wait, no. I want to know about the king and queen. Sorry. The king and queen." He opened and closed his mouth, at a loss. "What are they like?"
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Firstly, King Talon has no queen. He has been unfortunate in that regard. And secondly, he is an excellent ruler. Most who do not know him personally, fear him. But it's needless. He makes a great many sacrifices for his people."
She frowned. "But...how can one person be trusted to make all of the decisions for their people? That kind of power is dangerous, isn't it? Monarchies haven't worked out well here in my world."
"Is that so?"
"It is. I can tell you if you'd like."
"Very well. Enlighten me."
They talked at length about governments and ruling—late into the night—until his exhaustion couldn't be ignored. With Claire, conversation was all too easy. He knew why. Yet, this was not yet the time to tell her. The knowledge would surely frighten her. Besides, she had been through enough. And although he trusted her now—after his small peek into her mind—it was very unlikely that she fully trusted him.
He smiled in spite of his circumstances. How Lady Saffra would rejoice to know of his discovery! What would she say? Certainly, there was no denying it. The face the king's prophetess had often seen in her visions was unmistakable—a face not so easily forgotten. He'd seen it too during their training, whenever he delved into Saffra's mind. The face belonged to none other than the woman sitting before him now. Claire.
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