Gray : Past Three

From atop the Southern Castle’s roof, Viska looked on at a boy.

Fell was visibly struggling to catch up with the rest of the knight trainees. When the rest of the group swung their swords twice, Fell fought to simply not drop his blade. With a frown, again, Viska questioned Dawn’s decision to put a young boy in with grown men.

Even as Viska watched, Fell panted and nearly tripped on his own feet. His face, and everybody else’s, were red and drenched with sweat. Slowly, Fell picked up his sword again and swung down at the proctoring knight’s signal. A harsh yell broke free from his cracking throat.

Viska tilted his head to the side, adjusting his elbows on the warm stones beneath him. “‘The bird shall be free in the white winds,’” he whispered.

A cold wind rushed down from where he stood, and swept through the men and Fell. Viska didn’t watch his wind; instead, he sank down onto the stone floor, leaned against the wall, and pinched the bridge of his nose. With a sudden burst of anger, he gritted his teeth sharply.

Fell didn’t understand what it meant to be bound to a kingdom; especially for a Chimi. He didn’t know.

Pressing down on his rage carefully, Viska took a deep breath. “‘And the bird cries into the heavens, cursing its broken wings. Shall its eyes forever bleed tears. Yet the throes of life will loosen when light leaves. May freedom embrace the song of the dead bird,’” he recited.

When his fingertips began to fade, he closed his eyes.

* * *

Ispen was waiting for him in front of his room.

The moment in which Viska caught sight of her, he frowned. He raised a tired hand to wave her away. “Just go, Ispen. It’s been a long day even without you.”

Scoffing, Ispen leaned against the door of Viska’s room. Her bright hair tumbled over her shoulders. “That’s for you to deal with. I stopped by because of the Chimi boy.”

Viska stopped in his process of thinking of a spell to push Ispen away from the door. He narrowed his eyes, his head beginning to clear partially. “What?”

“The Chimi boy. White hair. Pale eyes. He’s training to become a knight, isn’t he?”

For a second, Viska contemplated saying something against the truth. Then he scoffed and rubbed his forehead. “How did you know that?”

Without replying to his question, Ispen slowly leaned forward, her eyes dark with a swirling tornado of threats and warnings. “You better keep your ears open, Viska. You did bring him into the palace, after all.”

She didn’t give Viska any time to talk before she walked away briskly. Viska sent a glare behind her. “I said that it’s been a long day even without you, Ispen,” he called out through gritted teeth.

No response came back.

Roughly, Viska slammed his door open and let it close behind him. Fatigue rushing over him, he sighed and rubbed his eyes.

* * *

Where Fell usually was training with the rest of the soldiers, there was no trace of him.

Viska slowly narrowed his eyes into thin slits, and scanned the Southern Castle carefully, dubious that he had missed something. The gray stones and the training men gave away nothing. Once more, Viska studied the group of knight trainees. Again, no trace of the boy that he was looking for.

The words that he had shared with Ispen flashed across his mind. Murmuring in dissatisfaction under his breath, Viska swiftly approached the proctoring knight.

When the knight caught sight of Viska, he froze, then raised a hand to stop the sideways swing of the trainees’ sword. Viska absently made a dismissive hand gesture, and grabbed the knight to pull him aside.

“Where is he?” Viska instantly demanded once they both were out of earshot. A look of confusion flashed across the knight’s face. He tugged his arm free from Viska’s grip and frowned.

“Who, sir?”

Viska pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head a couple times to clear it. “The white haired boy. He’s been training with you for the last few months or so. Now, where is he?”

The knight shook his head firmly, composure returning into his brown face. “I don’t know, sir.”

A flash of rage blinded Viska, and he shot out his arms like a viper to grab onto the knight’s chainmail shirt. The iron protested under his fingers as he slowly began to squeeze. “Where is he?”

“It’s not allowed for me to tell—“ the knight paused, and began to cough violently with his hands on his throat. His face was turning purple. Viska gritted his teeth and loosened his grasp. He drew one hand back to his side.

“‘A dragon’s bones were in a forlorn pile,’” he hissed.

Slowly, the white tip of a dagger ripped through the palm of his free hand. He heard a sharp intake of breath, yet didn’t bother to look. His crimson blood soaked the ground below him as he forcibly wrenched the dagger out.

His breathing trembled. For a second, he dropped his chin to his chest and inhaled deeply, fighting the feeling of unbelievably hot agony. Then he pointed the dagger at the knight, whose face was pale and clammy.

“Dragonbone will kill you, I promise,” Viska gritted out. “Tell me where he is.”

“In the royal palace,” the knight stuttered out.

Cradling his hand to his chest, Viska quickly began to whisper the spell. “‘And the bird cries into the heavens—’” he said, then stopped.

For the first time in his life, he said, “Tekinsne.”