Talon the Black (Dragonwall Series # 1)

Chapter 9 - The King's Prophetess

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?"