Talon the Black (Dragonwall Series # 1)

Chapter 13 - An Heir

Kastali Dun

Talon knew something was wrong. There was a tightness within his heart, gripping him, squeezing him. Each beat felt constrained. He took several deep breaths, trusting the feeling would disappear. It did not. He rubbed his sternum. What in the name of the gods was the matter?

"If we are all in agreement, we may proceed to the next matter of business." The steward's voice presided over the Lower Council meeting. How he abhorred these matters of formality—council meetings. He would have rolled his eyes, but he refrained. As stale as these procedures were, they were necessary. His people needed to believe there was more than a single decision maker holding the kingdom together. Little did they know....

"Very well. Let us move on," said the steward. The steward stood next to the chronicler, who sat in a separate, portable desk to his left. The rest of them sat around a large, polished oak table. It sat twenty-two—ten on one side and ten on the other. No one sat at the foot of the table.

Upon the chronicler's small desk was a large scroll. On it was written each of the meeting's discussion topics. At the end of each discussion, the chronicler scribbled his notes detailing the verdicts reached, tasks to be completed, and so on.

Aside from himself and the twenty members of his Lower Council, the steward and chronicler were the only other persons allowed to attend these closed meetings. His six King's Shields did not attend. There was no need for them to. He met with them nightly, filling them in on matters of importance.

Despite the rumor that much of the decision making was left to the Lower Council, it was the upper that truly controlled the lower. The decisions they made in this room were derived from whispers planted by Bedelth, Cyrus, Jovari, Koldis, Reyr, and Verath.

"Ahem," the steward cleared his throat. "The next matter is..." There was a pause—too long a pause. He turned to find the steward regarding him.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, for my unexpected abruptness." The steward was sweating profusely. He removed a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. "The next matter of business pertains to you, Your Grace."

He waved his hand in annoyance. "Then let's hear it. I haven't all day."

"Very well, Your Grace. There has been talk amongst the people."

And so it goes, he thought to himself. 'Talk amongst the people' was a favored way to lead many matters in these meetings. "What talk, Mathis?" He didn't bother hiding his boredom.

"Well, Your Grace, with all that is happening...well...the people are worried about...about..." Mathis sighed.

"Out with it, man."

Several in the room shifted before Mathis spoke again. "It is the wish of the people that you produce an heir, Your Grace, as you do not yet have one."

He said nothing at first, blinking. His annoyance transformed into the familiar anger he knew so well. His teeth clenched. "I would be more than happy to produce an heir, except, in case you have failed to notice, I have nowhere to place my seed."

There were several chuckles around the table. He watched Mathis turn a deep shade of red. The man was practically trembling. He usually had such an effect on people. He looked at everyone else—they fell silent under his gaze.

Mathis worked up the courage to speak. "Forgive—forgive me, Your Grace. I do indeed know this. Yet, it is the wish of the people that you take a bride and with her, create an heir."

It was so easy for the people to forget important facts about the Drengr race. He tried not to be offended as he turned to the rest of the council and spoke, "My people have many wishes. Did you know about this?" He met each of their gazes, at last settling on Lord Richard Rosk. He disliked Richard the least, with the exception of Lady Saffra, who was the only female council member.