Kastali Dun
Talon sat with his Shields, eyeing them in silence. Firelight danced across them, casting long shadows around the sitting room of his tower. A thunderstorm threw itself upon the keep's walls, breaking the day's humidity. Inside, all that could be heard was the crackling and popping within the grate. No one wished to speak, especially not he.
Three days of funeral games had come and gone. What he believed would be an adequate postponement of the inevitable was no longer so. Tomorrow the dreaded trial would arrive, and he would be forced to confront the outsider responsible for causing so much pain. He had half a mind to delay it further, knowing he was in such a poor state, but this was his duty.
He gave a heavy sigh and turned his gaze back to the fire. Duty. Always the driving force. He had every reason to despise it. Duty urged him to face each day anew, and duty kept him hard at work late into the night. This was the price of a crown—a lesson that took him many years to learn.
He never wanted to be king. When he was younger, he'd denied such a day would come, but it had, painfully so.
"No good will come from tomorrow," Reyr murmured after the silence had grown too great. He met Reyr's eyes, noticing the intensity within. It often felt like Reyr could read straight into his soul, and sometimes it was too much. He looked away and found the others also watching him.
He rubbed the back of his neck. "What would you have me do, Reyr? Cancel the trial? Policy demands it."
Koldis snorted. "The lower council, you mean? They demanded Claire's head too, yet you did not acquiesce."
"I already heard your argument, Koldis. You have given your reasons often and without restraint. All of you have." He glared at them. "You would have me speak with her in private. You would have me look the fool." They'd been over this more than once. The conclusion was always the same. "Without a trial, the people will believe I am weak. The council will feel slighted. All will claim this temptress has me eating from the palm of her hand. Am I to abandon the law?"
"Yes, yes." Reyr waved a hand in dismissal, his fires stoked. "The people cry for justice. We all know they do. Since when have the people come before your duty to do what is right?"
"And what is right? Hmm?" His voice was nearly too low, like the warning growl from a berated cat, or the stifled snarl from an irritated dragon. He already knew the answer Reyr was bound to give.
Politics. It always boiled down to politics. Slippery snakes he longed to squash. But if he did, more would simply spring up from the ground. It was impossible to please everyone. If he leaned one way, his people would cry out in dismay. If he leaned the other, the response would be the same.
"Speak with Claire," Reyr said. "Discover the truth behind what happened. You are not merely depriving yourself of answers. Cyrus was our brother too." Nods from the others rippled around the room. They were against him, and he hated it.
He sighed. Unsettling as it was, Reyr's suggestion was sound. Too sound. It was the truth that left him fearful. Unbreakable Promise or not, he was hardly ready to confront whatever it was this outsider had to say.
Maybe that made him a coward, inclined to hide behind his emotions.
Reyr seemed to know it too. The look he gave spoke volumes. "Your Grace, if I may—"
"No." An abrupt shake of his head silenced all further protests. He simply could not bring himself to grant their requests. Not yet. He needed more time. He needed to heal. He needed to see this woman for himself and discover what she was about. Only then would he decide whether or not to act upon Reyr's advice.
"The trial will go as planned, Reyr. Tomorrow she will face the kingdom. If she chooses to withhold information before the council, then she will go back to the cells."
Reyr opened his mouth—
"Enough. I am weary of this discussion."
Reyr's mouth snapped shut. Despite their willingness to keep him company, he wanted none. His tortured heart burned, injured by the loss of Cyrus, crippled by his feelings of abandonment, angered by an outsider for upsetting the balance of things. He almost snorted. The latter was winning above the rest. "Leave me for now. I will see you in the morning."
His Shields complied, rising from their chairs and exiting the room. Reyr was the last to depart. Just before shutting the door, he hesitated on the threshold for several breaths. Finally, he shook his head and disappeared.
Talon found himself alone. It was late and the storm had finally moved on. But there would be no sleeping—not tonight. Sleep had become a rare commodity. It often felt as if every bit of him belonged to his people, as if he was the true servant. Most days he offered himself unyieldingly, but there was still one thing that was entirely his own.
Leaving the interior of his tower for the large balcony just outside, he greeted the damp night air. The smell of rain lay thick around him, cleansing some of the stench that often seeped towards the keep from the city. The clouds had cleared enough to show a few stars. He found himself gazing upward. He belonged there within the heavens, lost within the sky and its clouds. No one could ever take that from him.
Resting his forearms upon the parapet that separated him from the plummet to the sea below, he leaned forward. Only a few golden pinpricks could be seen—ships making their way to and from the Port of Kastali. Gazing out into the night, out into its darkness, he considered the life he had been given.
If only the gods had chosen a different color for him. Black was not meant for ruling, and no king before had borne it. There were many good reasons why the royal family birthed reds, golds, and blues. Why black? And why him?
It was said that black was an impossible color to conquer. The epitome of unruliness. Those rare few to be cursed as he was were easily prone to anger, fear, and grief. What was worse, most lost themselves to it. He had very few fears, but losing himself to madness was one.
"Your beast within is untamed," his father used to say. His parents often worried over his color, and even more frequently used it to explain away his rebellious nature. Uncontrollable or not, that part of him would always be his.
Perhaps that was the true reason he'd failed to find a mate. He thought about all those he'd bedded in his younger days, all those he'd wronged. Which of them could tame him? None! He knew it now just as he had known it then. He was never meant to be owned by love. Such a thing was written in other colors, but not his.
To be mateless was a curse unto itself. He shook his head, pushing away the reminder of his ultimate failure. Instead he listened to the wind taunting him, coaxing him. "Come and fly with me," it said. This time he would answer the call.
Leaping from the ground, he shed his skin. He transformed into the hulking black iridescent scales that fit him better than humanity ever would. It was liberating. With outstretched wings he caught the nearest updraft, letting it carry him far from his responsibilities and farther still from his fears. Flying was the only thing that brought him joy, and how lucky he was to never share it. Let the people take everything else. They could never take his wings.
For a long time that night he was one with the wind, letting his body drift and soar, allowing his mind to forget the problems he was doomed to face. He went hunting and allowed the beast in him to take over. On the plains of Eigaden, he located a herd of wild grazers. They snacked under the stars, oblivious to much of their surroundings. If they anticipated his approach, they gave no sign of it, except a bit of shifting from hoof to hoof.
Pleased, he glided silently over them, absolute in his stealth. When he found one suitable for his picky tastes he overtook it, snatching it up in his claws and breaking its neck. It was a heavy creature, fattened from a season of gorging. All the better for him. He carried it to a perch overlooking the prairie. There he feasted. Nothing felt more powerful than being a dragon. Nothing.
By morning, his appetites were satisfied and his mind calmer, or so he thought. When he landed upon his terrace and took up his human form, all his woes came flooding back. The relentless waves of duty always found the one who waited upon the shores of responsibility. With nowhere to escape, it was inevitable.
"Good morning, Your Grace." Reyr stepped out of the shadows and greeted him.
Much to his surprise, he was relieved. A friend in need was always welcome, and today his need was great. "I had not expected to find you here," he said. "I certainly do not deserve such devotion." Then without stopping himself, he covered the distance between them and clapped the gold Drengr upon the back in greeting.
"I am here, Your Grace. I will always be here, devoted as ever." Reyr bowed his head. The golden Drengr was unyielding in his duties and even more so in his steadfast friendship. His color was a true testament to his heart.
Talon nodded in acceptance. "It was wrong of me to dismiss you so abruptly last night," he said. Admitting to one's faults was never painless, but after so many years of Reyr's company, it got easier.
"Your burdens are great and many, Talon. As my king, you owe me no apologies."
"Yes, but as your friend, I do."
Reyr smiled, squeezing his shoulder. He was always quick to forgive. "Come now, we have other matters at hand. Today, we are going to court. Today, you will finally meet Claire."
His heart beat a little faster. From fear, perhaps? Or was it nervousness? Whatever it was, he was suspicious of the foreign feeling. Something about this woman worried him, threatened him. Surely his instincts directed him, warning him to stay away.
"Claire..." he repeated, as if saying her name for the first time. It was nice. He mulled it over in his mind. Keeping her nameless made it easier to place blame, blame that ultimately rested with him. But admitting to it was the added brick that would send him buckling under too much weight. "What is she like?" he asked at last, failing to bridge the silence with something better.
"Well..." Reyr shrugged. "Beautiful, to be sure."
He grunted. "Since when have I cared about a woman's beauty?" His scars ensured that beauty would never come to him. The only second glances he received were from those brave enough to gawk at his ugliness. "I stopped caring about beauty. And women. Remember?"
Reyr failed to hide his grin. "You used to care, you know, when you were younger."
"Yes, yes. Thank you for reminding me. As if I'd have forgotten."
Before Gemma, he and Reyr had plenty of tumbles and romps with both the noble and common born.
"Fine. If you really wish to know, Claire is unlike any woman I have ever met. She is..."
His gaze narrowed. "She's what?"
"Different."
His scowl deepened.
"She is headstrong, stubborn, determined..." Reyr began ticking off her characteristics as his grin grew, as if he knew something Talon did not. "She is also a little strange. She does not behave like the women we are used to."
"My work is cut out for me then," he muttered, his annoyance resurfacing. Perhaps Reyr found merit in these traits, but he did not. They were not qualities he looked forward to wrestling with in court—or ever. The dragon within was too quick to anger, and if that happened, he would be helpless against the darkness inside.
"Oh yes, Your Grace, your work is cut out for you." For a moment, their eyes exchanged silent understanding. Reyr spoke once more, "It is nearly time. Shall I wait for you to prepare?" He was already dressed formally in his court attire, his large Sverak belted to his waist. "I thought you might like accompaniment this morning, and I assume you have already eaten."
"Aye, a fat grazer from the herds up north."
Reyr offered a toothy grin "Good. Then hurry up."
The male servants in his tower jumped into action. Like Reyr, he too donned his best, strapping his black-jeweled Sverak to his side. The sword was a Drengr's symbol of maturity—a gift from father to son at the coming of age. He wore his proudly.
Atop his head was placed his most regal crown. The weight of it prompted him of what lay ahead. "A crown should always be heavy to remind you of the burden you must carry," his father once told him. He was only a young boy then, and had not yet succeeded in Drengr transformation. As a child, he could not understand why his father bothered with such a burdensome formality.
"Just leave it behind, if the weight is too much," he'd said, watching his father fuss with it as he prepared for the tedious duties of court. "You're the king. That means you can do what you want."
"It is because I am the king that I wear it, my son." His father's stern look was something he never forgot. "Someday you will understand."
King Tallek was right. He did understand, only too well. It was now his turn to wear the crown whenever propriety deemed it necessary. Today was one of those days.
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