Kastali Dun

Saffra gazed upon the dream world. A woman stood before her facing a white beast, a wild dragon like those she had seen burning the city of Belnesse. This woman was no ordinary being. She was covered in shimmery, translucent cloth. The gown was of a single layer and did little more than hide her feminine parts. Beneath the fabric were markings that glowed with luminescent radiance. They sprawled across her skin, swirling and twisting like possessive snakes, winding their way around her arms and legs. She was a Sprite of the forest.

The dragon pawed the ground and snorted with fury, offering its challenge. The Sprite stood proud against it, shoulders squared, face like granite, displaying overwhelming confidence and strength. The calm collect of one possessing much experience in life.

It roared and opened its maw, letting forth a torrent of flame. She shielded herself, throwing up a wall of green magic. The flames distorted around her body. When they abated, a look of resolution passed over her features. She opened her mouth and began to sing. It was the purest voice Saffra had ever heard. Beautiful, hypnotic. An incant of sorts. But different from any kind Saffra knew. The power of the Sprite's words washed over her.

The dragon roared, tearing deep gouges into the earth with its talons. It knew of her intentions. It pulled against her, tried to escape, then gave a pitiful groan. It was snared.

The Sprite continued, her words weaving the necessary magic to defeat the beast. On and on she sang. Not once did her voice waver, or grow hoarse. Every note held perfection, as if it were a song known in the deepest depths of her soul. She was glad to sing it; joy reflected upon her face even in the midst of danger.

The beast grew still—deathly still. Its skin rippled like liquid stone, hardening its scales into marble. Then, all was still. It would move no more. The Sprite had seen to that. Forever a reminder to those who opposed her might.

Saffra woke the next morning with little recollection of the dream, though she tried to remember it. After breaking her fast in the dining hall, she made her way to the grand mage's quarters, as she did every day. The grand mage lived in the easternmost wing of the Great Keep. All Society elites resided there, and only the most powerful Magoi trained with them.

She generally passed much of her time studying with Grand Mage Marcel, mornings and afternoons. She had very few friends in the keep. Most of the noble women were too supercilious for her tastes. She was plenty happy to be in Marcel's easy presence. To her, he was like a grandfather.

"You know," she said, propping her chin on her fist, "I had the most peculiar dream last night." They sat in his study—a room akin to a small library—each quietly working on their own tasks. He had a long manuscript stretched out before him. She merely worked through a book for light reading.

Marcel arched an eyebrow, looking up at her with curiosity. "What sort of...dream."

Were she anyone else, he would have feigned interest. But, she was not simply anyone. She was the king's royal prophetess. Her dreams held meaning.

She sighed, thinking back over her dream. Most of it was foggy now, but she hadn't been able to shake the gnawing feeling of its importance from her mind. "I cannot discern its meaning," she said at last, frowning. "It's become rather vague."

"Has it given you reason to worry?" Marcel's blue eyes sparkled with interest.

"Well, no, but it has increased my curiosity."

"Oh-ho. Is that not a good thing? For when we are curious, we learn." He clasped his hands together, smiling wide. "What of it can you recall, my dear?"

She considered it. The only aspect that remained clear was a white dragon-like statue sitting on a hill overlooking other hills, which overlooked a prairie with a sea of yellowed grasses. The statue looked so real—so terribly real—as if a genuine dragon had simply fallen asleep, never to move again. Surely it was nothing more than carved stone, but why did her heart say otherwise? She told him all of this, hoping it would make sense.

"Ahh." He smiled widely. "I know exactly what you saw. Its history is highly debated, as are most occurrences long past. The great monument lies amidst the rolling hills of Kengr, near the Kengr Gate in fact." He hummed. "Most call it the Marble Dragon."

The Marble Dragon? The name did sound familiar.

"I believe there is a legend about it. If I am not mistaken, the story lies within the tome I lent you."

"That large old thing?" She knew exactly the one. She'd left it to collect dust on her night stand.

"The very same." He smirked as if he knew.

"I have found its accounts useful already," she said, trying to sound genuine. Trying, and failing.

Marcel merely smiled back at her before returning to his work. It was so like him to stimulate her curiosity before sending her on a hunt. Rarely did he provide answers to her questions. Rather, he encouraged the individual pursuit of knowledge.

When she revisited the Grand Mage's study after the mid-day meal, she brought the tome with her and let it land on the table with a loud thud.

"You might as well put that away," Marcel grumbled, standing up from his desk. His face was a direct change from earlier. Troubled. He was stooping more than usual too, perhaps weighed down by invisible burdens. "We must begin a new phase of your training," he said, coming to stand near her.

She opened and closed her mouth, taken aback. Something had happened during the midday meal. "My training is complete. We both know I merely come here as a formality." Cyrus was the only one she still trained with. Her lessons with the Magoi had ended the year prior.

"Yes, well..." Marcel waved a hand. "When Lady Lacara was prophetess for the king, she had an ability to call upon information and events at will. She discovered many answers. Scrying, I believe she called it, though I do not know the true name."

"Lady Lacara?"

She'd been the royal prophetess of Dragonwall long before Saffra came along. There was only ever one at a time. Lacara had served two kings: King Talon's grandfather and King Talon's father. Unfortunately, her old age eventually took her; she died shortly after King Talon's father, King Tallek, was crowned. After that, Dragonwall went nearly four hundred years without another Seer.

"Indeed. It took her many years to master the art," said Marcel. "But when she did, her skill greatly aided the monarchy."

"Why have I never heard of this until now?"

"My dear, you have numerous concerns to weigh you down."

Her cheeks heated. Marcel still saw her as a child. That's why he hadn't told her until now.

He hesitated. "Cyrus and I both agreed that it would be best to refrain from this higher form of magic until you were ready. It would seem, however, that the king feels differently."

"The king? So he is behind this sudden change in your mood."

"He is worried about Cyrus," Marcel said. "If you can but see a glimpse of him and reassure King Talon, it will bring relief."

"Then perhaps he will do something about Belnesse," she muttered. She was bitter over the king's response to her vision. He was too preoccupied to appear concerned. She expected shock, but instead he challenged her, doubted her, and named the all other matters more important to him. Growing threats along the coastlines, Gobelin unrest in the east, Vodar sightings in the North, Cyrus missing. Everything seemed more important than the vision of a burning city.

"Belnesse, my dear?" Marcel's brow furrowed. "What of it?"

She gave him a brief explanation of all she'd seen.

"Wild Dragons, you say?" He stroked his white beard, his scowl deepening. At last, he sighed. "The king has many cares, my dear, many cares. Let us focus on Cyrus for now."

"You've got to be kidding me," she muttered under her breath. Marcel in his old age didn't hear.

She adored Cyrus. She wanted him found just as bad as anyone. But what would happen if her vision came to pass?

"Shall we get started?" Marcel was already shuffling away.

"Very well." She sighed. "I am always willing to learn, and happy to help where help is needed."

"Good!"

Scrying at will was a form of meditation. Marcel went through the technique, detailing each step. It required a significant amount of concentration, an empty mind, and a single question. Though how such a thing could be possible—to focus one's mind on a singular thought—was beyond her. When it was time, he retrieved a scent stick from his cabinet. Incense.

They were hardly a thing of magic, though they were often used in magical undertakings. Mostly they were a popular way to drive away horrid smells, especially in the Great Keep. As a matter of personal preference, she disliked them for the headaches they gave her.

"Do you remember the magical properties of the acacia tree?" Marcel asked. She nodded. Acacia promoted the mind. Its blossoms smelled like sweet jasmine and always left her craving honey.

"The easiest way to begin Scrying, especially in the beginning, is with the scent of acacia." He lit the stick and placed it before her. "Now focus your mind, and do as I have explained."

His instructions were nearly impossible to follow, because her question kept changing. She was supposed to focus on only one, yet when she asked the gods, "Is Cyrus safe?" she saw nothing but the backs of her eyelids. If she squeezed them tightly enough, little stars danced across her vision, gold flecks in a sea of black. She tried many questions. "Is Cyrus alive?" "Where is Cyrus?" "What happened to Cyrus?" "Why did he not return as planned?"

Each was as fruitless as the next. Hours passed. Nothing happened. And of course, she took it personally, as an indication that she was not good enough, not powerful enough to do what was needed.

"It took Lady Lacara years," Marcel reminded her. "I did not expect results on your first try."

She did not miss the disappointment in his voice.

That night she lay awake, tossing and turning. Her sleeping habits had dramatically worsened since her vision about the Dragon Stones. The same vision that had taken Cyrus away from them. With each passing night, she feared sleep and the sights it would bring.

"This is useless!" she growled, throwing herself from her bed. She lit a candle and rummaged around in her cabinet for an acacia scent stick.

Making herself comfortable on the floor, she began the rigmarole of Scrying. She emptied her mind of all distracting thoughts, including her worry over Cyrus. She then focused her efforts on a single question, allowing the overpowering scent of acacia to envelop her.

"What happened to Cyrus?" she repeated over and over. All else was nothingness. The scent of the acacia conquered her senses, whisking her away from the real world, surrounding her with jasmine and honey.

She sat long into the early hours of the morning, focusing on a single train of thought, desiring an answer within the depths of her very being. She must have nodded off a few times, because her neck was getting cramped each time her head jerked. There was nothing...nothing but the blackness of her mind. Until it disappeared, replaced abruptly by a different kind of darkness.

She saw the nighttime sky. A full moon, pricked with glittering stars. She gasped. There was Cyrus, his gleaming pearlescent scales, nearly as bright as the moon. But...he was falling.

Fear doused her, twisting her stomach into knots.

He plummeted towards the ground. She glanced around, trying to understand, wanting—wishing she could do something, anything. But she was detached from this world, this place. This was not Dragonwall.

With a sickening crunch, Cyrus struck the ground. She cried out, but no sound came. She needed to help him—to save him.

As if flung, she was whisked away. She faced two black pillars made of onyx. The Kengr Gate, the portal Cyrus used to enter the world that wasn't Dragonwall.

Once again, her view changed. A mountain hold with jagged ramparts, crumbling with age. It was an eerie fortress, long abandoned. Surrounding it were hundreds of dragons, the very same she had seen before, swooping and darting, catching fish in the lake below.

Red, evil eyes looked back at her. She saw the thief as she'd seen him before. He haunted her visions again. She cringed, averting her gaze.

The scene disappeared. The evil face was replaced by a calming one. A face as familiar as her own. The same woman she had seen so many times before, with golden hair and green eyes. The woman was speaking, but she couldn't understand her words.

Everything disappeared.

Her eyelids flew open. Each gasp was jagged against her chest. Cyrus! She clawed her way across the floor to standing.

The king—she needed to warn the king. Without dressing, she grabbed a robe to cover her nightgown then fled her chambers. She raced through the keep, stumbling in the darkness as her bare feet slapped the cold flagstones. Breathless, she came to a halt before the king's chambers. It was time to tell him what she'd seen, and he wasn't going to like it. 

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