Kastali Dun

Talon reigned in his temper. It was not the first time he reminded himself to cease his glaring at Lord Sion Aziz. The man droned on about the state of things in Tayiqar. On and on and on. Gods, it was insufferable.

During his absence, matters had continued to deteriorate, despite his best efforts to implement precautions when the Gobelin attacks first began. Lord Aziz felt obligated to stress that something had to be done. "Something, or we will take matters into our own hands." As if they hadn't already done so.

Tayiqar was desert, mostly, though it had some rich land along the perimeters and a few valuable oases scattered throughout. The northern border straddled the Gable Forest. Its land, along with the land at the base of the Gable Mountains, and even the land near the Eastern Barrier Range, was all hospitable. With the recent raids, most of those living along the eastern border had fled south. Most, not all.

He thought of Kaljah and its villagers, now in the safety of Esterpine. Of Jeanine. She had failed to ask for a boon before his rapid departure from Esterpine. He rubbed his thumb over the coin in his fingers, thoughtful.

Would their paths ever cross again? What would become of her village? Would the few that were left someday return home? He almost snorted at the thought of Jeanine going back to a quiet lifestyle. She was a warrior at heart. Warriors didn't belong in quiet, uneventful villages. Perhaps her friend Jahl would take him up on his offer, and she would accompany him.

"...the losses eating into our economy." Lord Abdus Morad was now speaking. "I see no way to get these villages back on their feet until this is over." He represented Jipirat, another Dragondom in the East.

Talon inhaled, drawing himself up. "Tell me again, Lord Morad, why Dragonwall's armies are still having issues? I thought this was sorted when I made the trip to Lincastle. I worked with your lord governor on the matter."

"It was sorted, my king. But in your absence, three additional villages have succumbed, forced to evacuate. The loss of one-hundred-and-fifty soldiers between them, loss of trade, of commerce. Karoch and Morak generally purchase large amounts of timber during the cooler months—or did, before all this happened."

"And why didn't General Kavish do a better job of defending those villages? How many damned Gobelins could there possibly be? We've killed thousands. They cannot keep coming." He smoothed his scowl, knowing very well they were like ants. They would keep coming from whatever anthill they inhabited.

"General Kavish...believed the attacks would occur in Dahrat, Manah, and Quar."

"Where did he get an idea like that?"

"He received intelligence on the matter." Lord Morad fidgeted.

"Of course he did." His mood darkened. Some generals were idiots. The human ones mostly. "I've been gone less than a month and already my work there is falling apart. What intelligence?"

"Spies, information from infiltrating their ranks."

An involuntary snort escaped his chest. "Is that really what he said? How did he infiltrate their ranks? Disguised a midget as a Gobelin? You don't believe that, do you? Sounds to me like he was acting off of feelings rather than facts. Feelings don't win wars, Lord Morad."

The room fell silent. They shifted in their chairs. Saffra was, of course, not in attendance. Her chair remained empty. His eyes slid over it every time he wished he too could be elsewhere. He could have forced her to attend, but the others were less tolerant of her, and he felt that saving her from their snide comments was a small mercy he could offer.

"What would you have us do, Your Majesty?" Lord Aziz leaned forward.

"Remove him. Obviously." Lord Aziz opened his mouth, eyes wide. Nothing came out. "Gods, man! Not that kind of removal. I'm brutal, but not needlessly so. I don't mean kill him. Demote him. Give him an honorable discharge. Whatever. I don't care how you get it done. Get someone else in place who will do a better job. Must I spell it out?" He took a deep breath. He'd been irritable all morning.

Claire's face swam into his mind, followed by needles of guilt. What would she think of his outburst? Thoughts of her steadied his heart. His temper. "Now, if that is the final matter, this meeting has run on long enough. I have another appointment for which I am already late."

He glanced at Matthis and stood before anyone could come up with another—

"One more thing, Your Majesty."

His fist clenched and unclenched, but he didn't groan, even if he wanted to. Always one more thing. "I'm late, Matthis. It can wait."

The room came to its feet in unison, bowing as he took his leave.

He spent a moment checking his attire, his appearance. His man servants lingered nearby, waiting for an order. Everything looked fine. Except—

His face. His eyes lingered over his reflection, his scars. Flames of self-loathing flickered in his chest, rising up. He pushed back against them, summoning frost to cool his veins. The only mirror he owned, shattered more times than he could count. He would be out in public today. Gods, he hated public. And Claire would be with him, radiating beauty while he...scared everyone away. He held his own gaze for several heartbeats longer.

He would do this—for her. He would do this.

"Ready, my king?" Bedelth appeared and escorted him to Claire's apartment. He greeted the guards, Anderson and Derek. They knocked for him. Desaree's head popped into the hall before Claire and Saffra joined them in the hallway.

He only had eyes for his mate. Gods! It still took some getting used to. That word. Mate.

None of it felt real.

"You look...well." He refrained from the descriptions he preferred to use. Beautiful. Radiant. Alluring. Stunning. All of it. Everything.

She wore an emerald brocade, cut low enough that his eyes lingered unnecessarily over her chest. Heat flared across his shoulders and the back of his neck and he lifted his eyes.

Her smile had a way of silencing his thoughts. "Glad you didn't forget me," she said, arching an eyebrow. "We almost went on without you."

"Forgive my lateness. Council meetings will be the death of me."

"Gods, I certainly hope not!" she huffed. "What will the kingdom do without you? And your lower council. They'd be so lost."

"Always a wonderful sense of humor, my lady." But he heard the words she did not speak. The hint of what his death might, in truth, do to her more than anything. His heart skipped. And just like that, his mood was instantly improved. "Shall we?" He held out his arm and she accepted.

They made their way through the Hall of Kings, past each of the large paintings. He always disliked walking this stretch of the castle, seeing each Drengr king happily paired with an equally fierce mate. An unnecessary reminder. But with Claire on his arm, that reminder was softened.

"Oh, that reminds me!" she said. "Desaree invited Verath. He's agreed to meet us when we arrive."

"Ah. Excellent. A merry party we will make." He glanced over his shoulder. Desaree's face flushed when his gaze found her. Bedelth, he noticed, had offered Saffra his arm.

Carriages rolled to a halt just inside the portcullis to take the five of them through the city. With the exception of the arena where the biggest fights were held, the tournament and its accompanying festivities always took up a great deal of space. Tents and booths, stages for playacts, sparring rings, and the like. There was no room within the walls for such a spectacle.

They made the drive in comfortable silence. He tried to think of things to say, but with Desaree sitting across from them, he could think of no small talk. Instead, he used the opportunity to steal glances at Claire, who had turned her attention to the window.

"Ready for a day of debauchery?" Verath was waiting as they climbed out. He strode forward to greet them.

"As always. Glad you could join us. Let's show these ladies a good time, shall we?"

Claire joined him at his side and laced her arm through his. Verath chuckled, paying the two of them a pointed look before stepping away to take Desaree's arm. Talon's eyes lingered over that look. He knew what Verath was thinking. And so what? So what if Verath silently judged him? Soon enough, they would know the inevitable truth. Until then, Verath could go on guessing. Besides, his Shield was hardly one to judge.

Bedelth and Saffra emerged from the second carriage a moment later.

A small crowd had assembled to gawk. All too soon, rumors of his presence would pass through the expanse of stalls. He clenched his jaw, glancing instead at Claire, reminding himself that he was here for her—doing this for her. He was determined to act no different than any other patron in attendance, even with a crown upon his head and Sveark at his waist.

Leading their little party away from the carriages, they made their way down the first row of stalls. It was a maze of booths and shops. Shouts and laughter rang through the air. The scent of roasting meat mingled with the sweet tang of berry pies. It set his mouth watering. Jugglers and other street performers walked among the trampled lanes, stopping here and there to offer entertainment to any who might toss them a steely for a show.

"Oh! Look at that!" Claire pointed to a pair of entertainers in bright clothes who had stopped to climb atop one another. Acrobats, of sorts. The smaller of the pair had found his way to the shoulders of his comrade and stood erect, waving at the crowd, sometimes making obscene gestures when people walked by without tossing him a coin. "Let's give him something for his efforts, shall we?" she asked, glancing up with a mischievous smile.

How could he possibly say no? "A steely will do," he said, keeping his voice low.

Her smile widened as she opened her coin purse and tossed a steely up at the acrobat. He snatched it from the air and bowed, gracefully maintaining balance. "Why, I thank thee, fair maiden, king of kings, and lovely ladies and lords!" For their amusement, the performer popped on one leg, balancing with the other stretched out behind him.

No sooner had she clapped and laughed, she was again distracted. If it wasn't a booth with a display of blown glass or jeweled hairnets, it was an orator reading poetry from a box.

"Oh, isn't that the cutest?!" She pulled him over to watch a clowder of cats trained to stand on their hind legs and roll cylinders across a table. She crowded together with Desaree and Saffra, giggling and placing bets on which cat would get its cylinder to the finish line.

"Gods above," he muttered. He stood back with Bedelth and Verath, exchanging amused glances. Cats rolling cylinders? What would they think of next?

She came away with three additional steelys for having bet on the winning cat, a sleek gray-haired fluff ball that had won by a hefty length. "You know," she said, looking up at him, "I wouldn't mind a cat of my own. Are we allowed pets in the castle?"

He took her arm. "Pets? Hmm. Not generally. Most of the stewards work hard with our Magoi to keep rodents and critters out, so there's never been much need for cats and other animals. Besides, pets have generally been discouraged within the keep for cleanliness reasons under my rule. And excessive barking can be a downright nuisance in close quarters. But...perhaps exceptions can be made."

"I knew it!" She pinched his arm. "I knew I could convince you."

"Wait a minute," he said, "I haven't said yes, have I?" That did give him an idea though. He tucked it away for later.

She hardly heard him as she pulled him over to a ring booth where she proceeded to try on one of every size. Desaree and Saffra joined her, ooh-ing and aah-ing over the various bands of silver and gold. Had it been any other woman in the world, he would have grown exceedingly annoyed and tired. Booth to tent and tent to booth. It was a never ending show of goods and wares. But it wasn't any woman. And he didn't get annoyed in the slightest.

He enjoyed the distraction—enjoyed watching her frolic about in excitement—tracing the curves of her body, the way her shoulders rose and fell when she laughed, the slenderness of her neck, her hands as she held rings into the sunlight. Studying her mannerisms. Tucking everything about her away so that he could picture her whenever he was having a bad day. Picture these moments and remember them forever.

After exhausting the rows of booths and tents, they found a stage in the middle of the field. A group of comedians were set up to perform a rendition of A Duck for a Hen. The six of them grabbed seats near the front. He ignored the way people cleared out for them. He tried to pretend he was normal, no different than everyone else around. It was almost easy when he focused on Claire and nothing else.

Those in attendance got over the surprise at seeing him soon enough. Everyone settled down to watch the show. He was acutely aware of Claire beside him, the rise and fall of her chest, the delicate protrusion of her collar bones against her skin. They were close enough that her shoulder brushed his arm. He kept his breathing steady to keep his mind from clouding with arousal.

Instead, he leaned over to whisper, "A Duck for a Hen is a favorite at festivals like this. Have you heard of it?" She shook her head. "It's about an inexperienced young farmer who wants to build his own hen coup. He purchases a hen from a merchant after the merchant promises that the baby hen will lay golden eggs. But it's a trick. It's only a chick when the farmer buys it, you see. He treats it special, giving all sorts of attention, but the chick is really a duckling." A giggle fell from her lips but she kept her gaze on the stage. "As the chick grows, the farmer quickly realizes it doesn't look like any hen that he's seen. But he's never seen a duck either, so he has nothing to compare it to. He goes back to the merchant, who tells him that the chick simply looks different because it bears golden eggs once it matures. What he's seeing is normal. At last, the chick grows up and the farmer discovers that he's been duped. Arguments ensue. He eventually tries to run the merchant out of town. It's all rather funny, just watch. You'll see."

A grin split her expression. She watched, unblinking, as the performers pranced around the stage with raised voices, dramatically acting out all that he had explained. When they reached the part where the inept farmer confronted the merchant, the arguments between the two left her doubled over in laughter. He couldn't help but watch her instead of the performers. The way she laughed. Her smile....

He desperately wanted to reach over and take her hand. Even simply imagining how she would react to his touch left him jittery. Would she lace her fingers through his, like she sometimes did? Would she pay him a gentle smile? But he couldn't—shouldn't. They were in public.

When the playact ended, they visited other booths on the far side of the field. Claire spent enough coin to leave him with an overloaded sack of wares, which he carried around without complaint. Until the last item nearly split the seams. He glared at the heavy weight in his hand, lifting it pointedly.

"What?" she said, shrugging. "I'm giving back to Dragonwall's economy, aren't I?"

"I wasn't going to say a word."

Her eyes narrowed. He knew that look. Mock-judgement.

"Really," he added, covering his heart. "I wasn't. Selling wares is what our merchants come here for. Most have very few opportunities like this. Your support will feed their families through the winter." His words appeared to satisfy her. "Now, shall we head over to the arena for some fighting? I could use some ale."

"That sounds grand!" She glanced at Desaree and Saffra, who nodded in agreement.

They made their way back to the carriages where they stowed their belongings and got comfortable for the ride back through the city's gates. The carriages stopped before the towering structure he knew intimately. In his youth, he competed here plenty. Often with Reyr. A frown pulled at his lips. Gods, he missed Reyr.

"Wow, I always wanted to see it up close." Claire's words brought him back from his melancholy thoughts. "It's so much bigger in person."

"Aye. It seats thousands."

Her eyes widened a measure. "Really?" She glanced at Desaree and Verath, who both nodded.

As they disembarked from the carriages, the clang of weaponry echoed from within the arena. He led them through the front gates where Verath payed for their entrance. Those around them quickly stepped aside to make way, bowing and whispering. Something about having Claire on his arm changed the way he felt being on display. He usually entered through the back entrance that led directly to the royal box. But with Claire, he quickly noticed people's eyes were on her more than him. A far preferable alternative.

They climbed the stairs to the royal box, shaded by an awning, where they took seats to watch. "The soldiers' fights take place in the morning," he explained. "We already missed those. They're the boring ones, really. Right now it's mostly Drengr. Well worth watching."

And it was, but mostly because he enjoyed seeing her reactions to all that happened.

She sat forward in her seat, gaze intent on everything that took place below. When a worthy blow was struck, or blood drawn, she emitted a tut of frustration or excitement, as if she held her breath. Her eyes flicked back and forth, perhaps memorizing each movement as an understudy might.

His thoughts drifted back to their sparring session. Cyrus had shown himself—much to his delight. But that was not what heated his blood. He remembered the way she leaned against him that evening, the warmth of her body against his, the smell of her hair, the way her curves lined up perfectly to his. He inhaled deeply and blinked several times, clearing his head.

Merchants made their way through the stands, shouting and calling. Verath purchased refreshments and passed them around. They ate, and pointed, and speculated when one of the competitors made a blunder. He couldn't remember a time his heart had been happier. His cares outside the arena were all but forgotten, albeit temporarily.

With her, everything outside no longer existed.

The sun sank down towards the horizon and the fighting came to an end. The stands began to empty. The illusion shattered, and he found himself clenching his teeth, annoyed that it was all over.

They waited for the crowd to dwindle before heading to their carriages. While he hated to return to reality, it was unavoidable. He allowed Verath to hand Desaree into their carriage with a hurried goodbye before he shot into the sky. He handed Claire in, settling in beside her. The brief touch of her skin was hardly enough to satisfy him, nor the close proximity they now shared.

"Gods!" Claire was in raptures still, over everything. "That was so much fun." Desaree, agreed with the same amount of excitement. They ran through their favorite fights and the booths they had liked and the food that tasted the best.

He let the sound of her voice lull him into silence, watching the buildings flash by as their carriages clattered through the city. He wanted to take her hand in his, but instead clenched his fist in his lap.

"I can't wait to wear my new hairnet. Maybe I can wear my red gown tomorrow and you can put it in for me?"

"Of course," Desaree was saying.

"I could do this every day," she sighed, at last turning to him, perhaps finally remembering he was there. "Couldn't you?"

"That I could, if duty did not exist." Her face fell and he caught himself, cursing his words for allowing his melancholy to take away from her enjoyment. "We still have the ball tomorrow night, don't forget."

Her radiance returned. "Of course! The ball..." She hugged her sack of wares to her chest. "It's going to be so much fun."

"Yes, quite...fun," he said, letting the promise of it seep into his voice. His eyes lingered over her lips. Perhaps too long.

Their carriages clattered into the courtyard. Saffra and Bedelth emerged from the second and bid them all farewell, going their separate ways. He gazed after Bedelth, noticing a tenseness in his Shield's shoulders. What was that all about?

"I'll just take these for you," Desaree stammered, grabbing Claire's overflowing bag of merchandise before disappearing into the keep.

He watched Desaree's retreating figure. "Well then, she was quick to scamper away."

"I...yes, I suppose so."

It was obvious that everyone had retreated with the intent of leaving them alone. After an entire day spent pining after her, an entire day spent wanting to touch her, he had his wish. It left his pulse racing. He wanted so badly to drag her down into some darkened corridor and pull her into his arms, to run his tongue over her lips, to taste her for the first time....

"Did you enjoy today?" she asked, looking up at him with those eyes—those damned eyes.

His clothes were too tight, too warm. He forced his voice to sound calm as he said, "I did. That was the most fun I've had at a tournament in...as long as I can remember."

"Oh?"

"But only because you were with me." As soon as he said it, he watched her for signs of pleasure. There. She blushed and glanced at the ground, achieving his desired effect.

"Should we..." Her eyes darted to the royal gardens behind him.

Their walk. But they had already walked all day. And damned if he wouldn't have chosen to walk for an entire eternity, never ceasing, beside her. But then he thought of the pile of documents sitting on his desk, of the contracts he had promised weeks ago, still awaiting his signature. Gods. He wanted to gouge his eyes out at the mere reminder.

"If I could spend every moment in your company, I would be the happiest being that ever lived."

"But..."

He sighed. "But...duty awaits." She nodded, but did not seem upset. A small relief. "May I escort you to your chambers? We can walk slow." She seemed to like the proposed alternative as she took his arm.

They made their way into the keep. He glanced around them, noticing the way the torchlight danced across the darkened corridor. They were alone. He dropped her arm and took her hand instead, lacing his fingers through hers, pulling her closer to him as they walked. His ears pricked at the faint sigh escaping her lips, almost imperceptible.

He indeed walked slow. As slow as was possible without coming to a complete stand-still. If only to keep hold of her hand just a minute longer.

They reached the door to her chambers. The guards standing there looked on, pretending obliviousness to their king's hand-holding. Rumors would spark, if they hadn't already.

"You sure you don't want to come in for a few minutes?" she asked, glancing at the guards before looking back at him. "I can send Desaree away."

"I had better not, or else I might never leave." At this, she smiled. "Perhaps...perhaps another time?"

"Of course. Another time."

Perhaps tomorrow night, he wanted to say. After the ball. But he left the words unsaid. "I look forward to seeing you in your gown tomorrow." His words brought a flush to her skin. "I will come by and collect you at dusk, if that is favorable?"

"That—I mean, yes. It is." She glanced at the guards again.

"Don't mind them," he said, keeping his voice low, keeping a firm hold of her hand. "They are paid well enough to keep their mouths shut." He let the words hang in the air and saw the guards struggle to keep their expressions neutral. "Now then, goodnight, Lady Claire." He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it, his lips lingering over her skin, eyes lingering over hers.

"Goodnight, Talon," she said in a breathy whisper.

He dropped her hand and stepped away, then retreated down the hall to his own door. Just before he reached his own guards, he glanced over his shoulder. She was still watching him, standing there with her arms at her side. How strange this was, to have someone so intently focused upon him. And not just anyone, either. Gods, it made his insides squirm with a feeling he hadn't felt in a long, long time. Giving her a final smile and goofy wave that made him feel absolutely and completely stupid, he disappeared into his tower.

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