Kastali Dun
Talon knew something was wrong. There was a tightness within his heart, gripping him, squeezing him. Each beat felt constrained. He took several deep breaths, trusting the feeling would disappear. It did not. He rubbed his sternum. What in the name of the gods was the matter?
"If we are all in agreement, we may proceed to the next matter of business." The steward's voice presided over the Lower Council meeting. How he abhorred these matters of formality—council meetings. He would have rolled his eyes, but he refrained. As stale as these procedures were, they were necessary. His people needed to believe there was more than a single decision maker holding the kingdom together. Little did they know....
"Very well. Let us move on," said the steward. The steward stood next to the chronicler, who sat in a separate, portable desk to his left. The rest of them sat around a large, polished oak table. It sat twenty-two—ten on one side and ten on the other. No one sat at the foot of the table.
Upon the chronicler's small desk was a large scroll. On it was written each of the meeting's discussion topics. At the end of each discussion, the chronicler scribbled his notes detailing the verdicts reached, tasks to be completed, and so on.
Aside from himself and the twenty members of his Lower Council, the steward and chronicler were the only other persons allowed to attend these closed meetings. His six King's Shields did not attend. There was no need for them to. He met with them nightly, filling them in on matters of importance.
Despite the rumor that much of the decision making was left to the Lower Council, it was the upper that truly controlled the lower. The decisions they made in this room were derived from whispers planted by Bedelth, Cyrus, Jovari, Koldis, Reyr, and Verath.
"Ahem," the steward cleared his throat. "The next matter is..." There was a pause—too long a pause. He turned to find the steward regarding him.
"Forgive me, Your Grace, for my unexpected abruptness." The steward was sweating profusely. He removed a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. "The next matter of business pertains to you, Your Grace."
He waved his hand in annoyance. "Then let's hear it. I haven't all day."
"Very well, Your Grace. There has been talk amongst the people."
And so it goes, he thought to himself. 'Talk amongst the people' was a favored way to lead many matters in these meetings. "What talk, Mathis?" He didn't bother hiding his boredom.
"Well, Your Grace, with all that is happening...well...the people are worried about...about..." Mathis sighed.
"Out with it, man."
Several in the room shifted before Mathis spoke again. "It is the wish of the people that you produce an heir, Your Grace, as you do not yet have one."
He said nothing at first, blinking. His annoyance transformed into the familiar anger he knew so well. His teeth clenched. "I would be more than happy to produce an heir, except, in case you have failed to notice, I have nowhere to place my seed."
There were several chuckles around the table. He watched Mathis turn a deep shade of red. The man was practically trembling. He usually had such an effect on people. He looked at everyone else—they fell silent under his gaze.
Mathis worked up the courage to speak. "Forgive—forgive me, Your Grace. I do indeed know this. Yet, it is the wish of the people that you take a bride and with her, create an heir."
It was so easy for the people to forget important facts about the Drengr race. He tried not to be offended as he turned to the rest of the council and spoke, "My people have many wishes. Did you know about this?" He met each of their gazes, at last settling on Lord Richard Rosk. He disliked Richard the least, with the exception of Lady Saffra, who was the only female council member.
Lord Rosk shrugged. "You know how they are, Your Grace." He did not miss the small waver in Richard's voice. "Having no heir makes them nervous. It makes all of us nervous." After saying this, Lord Rosk sat up a little straighter, squaring his shoulders.
"What say the rest of you?" He looked from one council member to the next. Seeing the invitation, they all began voicing their opinions, as they generally did. The only member to remain silent was Lady Saffra. Out of everyone, she had the most sense. Ironically, she was the youngest—a child in his eyes. He would always see her as the ten-year-old she was when she first arrived at the keep, despite the fact that she was now a woman grown.
He sighed, loudly. The table fell silent immediately. "You are all aware, I presume, that I am a Drengr?" He looked from person to person. "Good. And I am sure you are further aware of the customs that govern my race? The customs that govern the monarchy?" Still silence. "Also good. I am glad to see that you are not idiots. So then, surely you know that the only life partner a Drengr takes, or in my case, the only queen a king takes, is his mate? The king's mate is the making of his destiny, which the gods alone ordain. Has it not been this way for the last fifty thousand years?"
His words were met with low grumbles, many in agreement with what he said. He held back the most crucial bit of information, which the Council failed to see. Even if he took a bride, one who was not his fated mate, he would fail to produce an heir. That was how Drengr magic worked. Only his fated mate could bear his child.
"So I ask you this: have the people forgotten our customs?"
He waited several moments. Lord Rosk cleared his throat. "They have not forgotten, Your Grace. Your circumstances are special, as we can all agree." Lord Rosk looked around at his fellow council members, who each nodded in turn. "We are falling into desperate times. Surely you cannot argue that. Perhaps it is time to reign in a new era—new customs. Perhaps it is time to abandon the customs of old in favor of preserving your line. If you do not agree with that, then maybe we council members ought to demand a Tournament for the Crown."
He sighed. The entire matter was ridiculous, but deep down he knew there was relevance to their worry. He was the first king in the Drengr monarchy to fail at finding his mate. He had tried—for nearly a hundred years he tried. His mate simply did not exist anywhere in the world. And once he obtained his scars, the hope of finding anyone to love him evaporated. No one, mate or not, could stand to look at him.
"Tell me, when I gave my coronation speech, did I not make it clear that I would be the first of my line to rule without a queen? I promised the people that I would do as good a job, if not better, than any king before me. Have I not?"
"You have done excellently, Your Grace." Many nods of agreement circled the table. "The only problem is, the people to which you gave that promise died nearly two hundred years ago. It is their offspring you now answer to."
"Yes, yes." He knew that. Humans led such short lives. Perhaps he would play along for now. If hope would make the people happy, then why not? "Very well, my lords. I will consider this request. And who—which lady specifically—do the people believe I should take as a wife?"
"That, Your Majesty, is entirely up to you." Lord Stefan Rosen spoke up, leaning forward in his chair. "I believe that it would be wise to take a woman of noble birth. She should be young, as you will outlive her by many years. Might I be so bold as to suggest—"
"I know exactly who you might be so bold as to suggest, Lord Rosen. Your daughter, Lady Caterina, is the youngest and most eligible when it comes to those families belonging to our beloved council members, is she not?"
"Aye. She is, Your Majesty. And I am sure many of us cannot deny her beauty, either." Several whispers of agreement resounded.
He held his tongue. There was little about the wretched woman he found beautiful. By traditional standards she was uncommonly pretty, with symmetric features, dark hair, supple breasts, and a tall figure. It was her selfish personality that preceded her. It drowned out the rest. Then again, many of his nobles were selfish.
There were murmurs of approval at the idea of wedding Lady Caterina. She was a known favorite amongst the nobility. "It would be a most fitting match, Your Grace." Lord Rosk looked at him, stroking his goatee thoughtfully.
"Aye, Your Grace, a smart match too." Lord Euan Doyle nodded vigorously.
"Is this truly what you wish?" he asked, looking from one to the other. Every single occupant muttered their agreement, except Lady Saffra. She wanted as little to do with the Council as possible. It was rare for her to attend meetings—only when he required it, as he did today.
He considered the request. Marrying for the pure sake of producing an heir had never before crossed his mind. Obviously, no heir would be produced. But perhaps it would keep the people off his back for a short while. Then he would be free to tackle the more important matters at hand.
If it was Lady Caterina he was forced to wed, he would be stuck with her longer than a purely human bride, given that she was a mage in training. However, even the Magoi did not live forever. He shuddered at the thought of having Lady Caterina around. A more unpleasant companion couldn't be had. At least he took a measure of solace in knowing she would have to see his scarred face every day. That almost made him chuckle. Fitting.
"It would make the people happy, Your Grace." The steward stepped forward. "The gods only know the kind of unrest we are facing. Perhaps the prospect of a wedding might bring renewed excitement to the kingdom."
Excitement...he'd enough of that. Every day felt like diving head-first towards the ground with his wings closed tightly to his body, only to pull up in the final instant. The last thing he needed was more excitement. Curse Cyrus for making him worry!
Again his heart tightened. His heightened sense of unrest plagued him. He wished to be done with this meeting, but there was still one final matter of importance to discuss—the only important matter.
"What say you, Your Grace?"
"Very well, Mathis." He would do whatever necessary to be done with this stifling room and these stifling people. "Charlan, you may jot down in your chronicles that I will consider the matter of taking a noble woman to wed—Lady Caterina if it will please you, Lord Rosen."
Lord Rosen was like an excited toad. His chubby cheeks were rounded and plump as he smiled widely, nodding fervently up and down, so hard that his head bobbled like he was experiencing a spasm. He half expected the man to begin croaking.
"Very well. You will have my answer on the matter in a fortnight. May we move on to our final matter, Mathis?"
"Aye, Your Grace. We may."
"Good." He looked back at the Council. "It has come to my attention that Cyrus is in danger." There were whispers around the table. Of course, no one knew what had befallen his beloved Shield, but it was time to reveal all, or suffer the criticisms of the people for withholding valuable information.
"Over a month ago, as you are aware, Cyrus departed the capital. I told you he was traveling to the North on business, but I was not wholly forthcoming regarding his mission."
The room remained silent. Lady Saffra fidgeted, everyone else sat stock still.
"I did not send Cyrus to Northedge. Instead, I sent him on a secret mission to obtain a weapon within the Gable Forest. Unfortunately, it would seem that his mission has ended in failure. He has disappeared from our world and traveled through the Kengr Gate."
Sounds of outrage and disbelief broke out around the table. It took him some time to calm everyone down. At last, he handed the discussion over to Lady Saffra. As he did, a thought occurred to him. No one suggested her as a viable option for a wife. She held higher titles than all of them, despite coming from a lower birth. Yet none mentioned her as a candidate for marriage. It made him curious. Why was the Council so supportive of Lady Caterina? Had Lord Rosen bribed the members?
Lady Saffra was speaking. "Yesterday I conducted a Scry. I searched for Cyrus and found him." She proceeded to describe what she had seen. When she finished, the same shock and surprise circulated the table.
"I believe you have not been fully truthful with us, Your Grace," said Lord Rosk. "Tell us of this weapon you mentioned."
He sighed. There was no sense in hiding it now. Given that his council members were sworn to secrecy, nothing they discussed left the room. However, he knew that tongues liked to wag, and no man was perfect. He especially knew that Lord Rosen would immediately run to Lady Caterina and inform her of the news. The prospects of marriage would greatly thrill her, even though he had not yet agreed.
"The weapon of which I speak is an ancient one—I find it unlikely that any of you have heard of it. They're called Dragon Stones."
His stomach clenched. He placed a hand over it to calm it.
"A thief has...has attempted to steal them." Whispers broke out, which rose to loud protests as the council members argued over their speculations
His stomach lurched again. His heart pounded and the pressure in his sternum doubled, as if his heart attempted to jump from his chest. Extreme pain seared him and his vision flashed white. He gritted his teeth. It was like he'd been stabbed. His six Shields were bound to him, but it felt as if one bond was being ripped away.
His wide eyes found Saffra. She was slumped in her seat, unconscious. The Council was too preoccupied to notice her blackout. Moments later she opened her eyes—they were wide and horrified. What had she seen? Cyrus's death? The same death he was surely feeling now?
Another spasm of agony took him. He tasted blood in his mouth as he bit his tongue. And then as suddenly as it began, it ended, leaving him...empty.
"The King is unwell," Saffra cried, jumping to her feet. "This meeting will continue tomorrow. All of you—out!" Following her orders, the council room cleared. He was hardly aware of it in his daze.
"He's dead!" he hissed through the pain, trying to stand. "Cyrus is dead!"
Tears poured down Saffra's face.
He turned his head away from her and screamed. Then he fled. Out on the balcony of his tower, he transformed into a great black dragon, releasing himself into the sky. He opened his maw. The sound that came out was pitiful. It was called the Death Cry of the Drengr for a reason. The eerie wailing embodied his incomprehensible grief. Others heard the sound and joined him, jumping into the sky to pay their respects. Soon the entire capital was alight with dragons—all keening mournfully.
Of the six brotherhood bonds, one was now shattered. He couldn't bear it. There would be no more white dragon amongst his Drengr Fairtheoir. Cyrus was gone.
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