Kastali Dun

Saffra pulled an arrow from her quiver. Though her movements were well-practiced, today they betrayed her true feelings. Anyone who knew her would easily note that she was not herself. Most were still gathered in the lower courtyard to witness the highly-anticipated arrival of the king's Drengr Fairtheoir.

She had been on edge all day, but now, in the aftermath of the city's trumpets, her nerves were unbearable. Rule breaking was quite unlike her. Moreover, the idea of deceit was wholly foreign. But what choice did she have?

Whoosh. She let her arrow fly, squinting against the setting sun as she followed its arc to the target. Thud. It met its mark. Whoosh. She repeated the motion. Thud. Over and over she drew and fired. Whoosh. Thud. Whoosh. Thud. The sound was soothing.

With every shaft dispensed, she felt calmer and more collected. Archery was her tonic. It allowed her to gather her thoughts and think clearly. Moreover, it was the only skill she possessed beyond her abilities with magic.

Although sunset approached, it was still warm. She found it refreshing to feel the sun's heat upon her face. The air was not stale as it was indoors. As of late, venturing into the open was both rare and difficult. Since the death of Cyrus, she often tucked herself away within her chambers. Too many questions followed her footsteps. Be it handmaiden, kitchen wench, or noble, everyone within the keep had an insatiable desire to discover the scraps of truth behind the free-flowing gossip feeding their appetites.

Despite her desire to avoid the inevitable, she could not stay locked away forever. With so much happening, this was the best way to pass the time before nightfall, for nightfall was when her mission would commence.

Her plan was not long in the making, and rather risky, but necessary. During court, the king had announced the latest news. The woman named Claire would be thrown in a cell within the dungeons. "Put her where she belongs!" many cried in response. Their shouts rang through the throne room. Others called for death. And worse. She lurked in the shadows, shrouded beneath a silken cloak. In those moments, she'd been ashamed to be a part of the crowd.

"In the dungeons," the king had announced, "this woman will be out of our way. We must honor Cyrus." A cheer echoed from the walls. "This is my command to you. Clear your minds from the distractions she has brought upon us. Turn your attention where it is deserved."

"To Cyrus!" many cried, as a frenzy took over. "To Cyrus," they chanted. It was more than she could take—using Cyrus as an excuse to behave inhospitably towards this young woman. Finding her way through the crowd, she crept from the hall. More cheers followed in her wake. She did her best to ignore them.

How could the people be so cruel towards someone they knew nothing about? They were hasty in their judgement. Grief and anger were fickle fiends, but it was not the people she truly blamed. If the king would not speak to Claire then she would, and that meant she needed a plan, but going behind the king's back scared her. Admittedly, her own selfish desires were stronger than her fear, for it was Claire's face that haunted her mind, and she was determined to know why.

Walking over to the target, she removed her arrows and returned to her chambers.

"My lady, welcome back." Jocelyn greeted her. "Desaree will be along shortly with our evening tea. Shall I ready your gown for the procession?" The gown Jocelyn spoke of was a special one. The dressmaker, Lady Rosanne, had made it for her from a light gray velvet. It matched the tunics to be worn by the king's Drengr Fairtheoir. Like their attire, her dress had a silver dragon's head embroidered on the left breast—the king's sigil.

"Thank you, Jocelyn, please do, and the matching cloak as well."

"But my lady, it will be too hot."

"Never mind that," she said. No one could know of her plans, not even Jocelyn. "Jocelyn?"

"Yes, my lady?"

"Tonight I would like for you to attend the procession with Desaree."

Jocelyn hesitated before bowing her head. "As you wish."

She then returned her attention to Saffra's gown. Many ladies felt they needed accompaniment no matter where they went. Handmaidens were accustomed to following their mistresses around, but Jocelyn understood that Saffra was different. Saffra often chose to do things on her own.

Without Jocelyn around, she could easily sneak off, and what better night than tonight?

Jocelyn helped her into her gown. The fabric was soft and soothing. Regardless of how soft it was, she could not breathe. "Must they be so tight?" she cried. "Can you not loosen the laces?"

"You complain every time, my lady. And every time my response is the same. No. The gown is meant to be this way."

"Oh, all right then. Thank you."

Sitting down, she took up the large tome lent to her by the Grand Mage. For days she had thumbed through it, reading the stories one at a time, hoping to arrive at the tale Marcel spoke of—the one about the Marble Dragon. Her scrying lessons with Marcel left her exhausted, so there was little time to research her dream, and it was slow work.

As she waited for her evening tea, she flipped through the pages, skipping all the narratives she had not yet read. Much to her frustration, none of the titles contained the key words for which she searched. When she reached the final page, she sighed loudly and began again, this time digging deeper until she gasped. "I found it Jocelyn!" she said, calling her handmaiden over.

"How Fright the White met his downfall," Jocelyn read, albeit shakily. She was still learning. Most handmaidens did not read. Saffra had been teaching her. She smiled. Fright the White was a fitting name.

"Shall I read it aloud?" she asked. Jocelyn nodded, taking a seat opposite her. There was an epigraph and an authors' note. She started with those first.

Pale as snow his scales do gleam,

It seems they will forever,

For cursed he was by one supreme,

A most challenging endeavor.

Now he rests in grassy plains,

Entombed by solid stone,

For only blood can break these chains,

To free him from his own.

"What do you suppose that means?" Jocelyn asked.

"Well, it is obvious is it not?"

Jocelyn shook her head. "I do not understand the 'Only blood can break these chains' part."

"I think it means that someone of the blood, I am not sure which blood, could possibly break the spell to free Fright from his stone form."

Jocelyn's jaw dropped. "But my lady, is he not a dragon?"

"Aye. A dangerous dragon at that." She was too eager for the story to ponder the poem further. She began reading the authors' note.

"The following is an interpretation of a tale disclosed by the Sprites of the Gable Forest, as told by their bards. To understand this legend, we recommend the reader first familiarize themselves with the stories of Rage—"

"Who is Rage?" Jocelyn asked.

"A dragon you never want to meet." She barked a laugh. "But we may never get through this story if you continue to ask questions." She gave Jocelyn a knowing smile. "The legend goes as follows. There was once a powerful dragon by the name of Fright, for he was truly frightful as his name suggests. Most commonly he became known as Fright the White, for his scales were that of moonstone. It is said that many onlookers mistook him for a full moon during dark skies. Thus the saying, 'Beware of the traveling moon' became common in stories told to scare children."

"I've heard of that!" Jocelyn cried. "My mother used to read me stories about the ancient dragons."

Saffra chuckled. Hers had too. "Fright the White was the leader of the Storm Clan, one of the many clans to pledge allegiance to Rage. He was desperate to prove himself and eventually, he secured a most prestigious position in Rage's hierarchy. As his right hand and trusted general, he carried out many heinous crimes against the peoples of Dragonwall. Next to Rage, he was the most feared.

"For a time, the two of them coexisted quite well, sharing their love of bloodthirst. But there came a day when Rage's hold upon Dragonwall began to weaken. Near the end of his campaign, many of Rage's sworn clans were defeated by the newly formed Drengr. For Rage, the need to protect his claim to kingship grew dire, so much so, that he betrayed Fright.

"The mighty Sprite queen, Queen Isabella, had been working hard to track down the last of Rage's supporters. To save his own hide, Rage and his Ice Clan betrayed the Storm Clan, resulting in the brutal deaths of all their clan members, except for Fright. Isabella had no intention of killing Rage's evil general. Her intentions were far worse."

"She turned him to stone!" Jocelyn clapped her hands together. She knew all about Saffra's dream and was eager to discover the truth of it.

"It would seem so," Saffra said, turning back to the story. "At long last, Queen Isabella came upon Fright in the planes north of the Gable Forest. She faced him alone, but she did not fear. Her magic was from the oldest bloodline in the kingdom. Her ancestors, the Spirit Singers, settled the lands of Dragonwall long before it was named thus, even longer still before the dragons existed. She was confident in her ability to curse this beast.

"And curse him she did, albeit not without great effort. They battled for many hours, testing the might of their powers—the magic of the Sprites against the magic of the great Asarlaí who birthed the beasts into the world. When at last the dust settled, all that remained of Fright was the form in which she cursed him to bear, the form from whence he originated. That of stone.

"From that day forward, the peoples of the land would rest easier knowing that a great evil had been destroyed—"

There was a loud knock at the door.

"That would be Desaree, my lady." Jocelyn jumped up and rushed to the door.

She set down the large tome, pushing aside her curiosities for now. They both greeted Desaree. She entered carrying their evening tea and honey cakes.

As always, Saffra was delighted to see the young woman. "Tell us, Desaree, how have you been?"

Desaree was a favorite of hers. She often found it difficult to connect with the ladies of the keep. Most of the nobles were entitled and rude. She had no difficulty getting along with those of lower positions.

"I am faring quite well, my lady. Thank you." Desaree busied herself with the tea and cakes. Something was different about her this evening.

"What has you in such a good mood? Come, tell us. We would love something positive."

Desaree's face turned beet red and she grew very shy. "Nothing at all my lady. It is simply a good day."

Saffra opened and closed her mouth. A good day? With an impending funeral and the keep in an uproar? She decided to let it go. "Were you given time to attend the procession tonight?" she asked. "I had hoped that Jocelyn might attend with you."

"Oh. Yes, my lady. I am permitted to attend. All the servants are."

"Good." She was pleased to hear this. It would make her evening easier.

"Also, I would be thrilled to have your company, Jocelyn." The two women exchanged happy smiles. "Sarah will be joining us as well."

"How wonderful!" She looked from Jocelyn to Desaree. It was all good news. "Have you a few minutes to join us for tea, then?"

"I...sure. Why not."

Together, they snacked and chatted until it was time for the two women to depart. As soon as Saffra found herself alone, she jumped into action, taking up the remainder of the honey cakes and stuffing them into a basket. Already there were cheeses, bread, salted pork, and other delectable items stowed within. She'd spent the day filling it, careful to keep it tucked away from Jocelyn.

She trusted her handmaiden, but this task could be dangerous and required secrecy. Claire was considered a threat to the kingdom. Most believed her guilty of murder. Cyrus was beloved by all. No one could know of this meeting.

With everything in order, she had only to wait. The procession was to begin at nightfall, and it was only just growing dark. She wanted to ensure that no stragglers spotted her, so snatching up a half-finished wine bottle, she slipped it into the basket. Then she pulled one of the new bottles she had just received earlier that day and filled a goblet of her own. As the ruby liquid flowed into the cup, she hesitated. There was a strange and abnormal smell. She lifted it and inhaled. It reminded her of something. Unease crept into the pit of her stomach. Indeed, something was off.

Picking up the bottle, she studied it and smelled its contents. Her nose crinkled. Poison. It was ever so subtle, but she recognized it.

Disgusted, she set the bottle down and poured the contents of her goblet back inside. Unease prickled the back of her neck. The bottle was new. It had arrived with a set she recently ordered. Was someone trying to...to poison her? Her heart sped up. She glanced around the room. Nothing looked amiss. There was no one hiding in the shadows.

A dangerous game was brewing, and she had a feeling it had to do with her dissension from the lower council.

With a frenzy, she began uncorking the other bottles. She smelled each one before breathing a sigh of relief. They were fine, it was only the one. She returned the cork to the poisoned bottle and set it aside, determined to take it to the king when she had the chance. Until then, she took a deep breath and refocused her mind. She needed to mentally prepare herself for the task ahead.

This time, she poured herself a new goblet of wine from a new bottle, free of poison, and began sipping it. The wine was a deep red from the vineyards of Dalry. Ruby Waters. She drank deeply until none remained. Setting the goblet down, she rose and gathered up her basket.

At the door, she paused, pulling her velvet hood over her head to shadow her face. Taking a deep breath, she turned the handle and stepped out into the corridor. There she breathed a sigh of relief. The keep was silent, and not a soul was in sight. Squaring her shoulders, she set off into the night to find Claire. 

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