Crown of Dragonfire (18 page)

Meliora shook her head.

Lucem nodded. "With as
much effort as my labors in Tofet, I labored here to remove my collar. I spent
hours bashing it with rocks. On my travels, I stole blades, plyers, hammers. I
cut and bruised my neck so many times, trying to shatter this iron. I even
snuck into a smithy once, took hot metal, tried to melt the collar off but only
burned my skin." He pulled the collar downward, showing an ugly scar. "The
runes upon it were forged in dark magic, and it cannot be removed. Our dragon
forms are forever lost, and so is Requiem."

Meliora pulled out the
crumpled key from her pocket. "Not if we can fix this."

For a long time,
Meliora spoke, and Lucem listened. She told him of her life in the ziggurat, of
the Keeper's Key that can open the collars. She spoke of losing her wings, of
discovering Requiem, and of her quest for the Keymaker. She told him of the
Chest of Plenty, of duplicating the key half a million times, of the dragons of
Requiem rising together to flee captivity and seek Requiem. And as she spoke,
Lucem was silent, asking no questions, simply listening.

When finally Meliora
completed her story, Lucem crawled out of the cave, leaving her and Elory
inside.

The sisters glanced at
each other.

"Did we say something
wrong?" Elory asked, frowning.

Meliora peered out the
cave. Lucem was walking downhill toward the river, not turning back to look at
them. Across his shoulders, he held his only belongings—a tattered old pack, a
waterskin, and a makeshift spear with a rusted head.

With another glance at
each other, the sisters burst out of the cave and followed.

"Lucem!" Meliora said. "Lucem,
where are you going?"

He took a few more
steps downhill, then looked over his shoulder at her.

"Where do you think? We're
going to find that Keymaker. Are you going to just wait up there, or are you
coming too?"

He resumed walking
downhill. Meliora and Elory looked at each other, both with wide eyes, and
Meliora couldn't help it. She grinned.

"Think we should let
him tag along?" Meliora asked.

Elory glanced at Lucem;
he had reached a valley and was now racing through the grass toward the
riverbank.

"I think," Elory said, "that
we'd be tagging along with him."

The sisters ran
downhill, swords hanging at their sides, following a legend in chase of a myth.

 
 
JAREN

Under the burning sun they
labored. In the heat and light of Saraph they screamed. In pits of tar and
clay, their bones shattered, their backs broke, their skin tore, their souls
cried out for mercy the masters would not grant. In darkness they hid, weeping,
begging, praying to stars that would not answer.

Ishtafel, King of
Saraph, rose above all, laughing above, a second sun, and under his flames the
slaves burned.

Is this how Requiem
perishes?
Jaren wondered, toiling as another day began, mixing the clay and
straw, forming the bricks to bake in the kilns. Not in battle, not with song,
not with pride, but fading away in the dirt?

"Faster!" An overseer
swung a wooden club, slamming it against Jaren's back with a crack. "Toil!"

Jaren couldn't help it.
He cried out in pain. He fell. The seraph spat, clubbed him again, kicked his
side.

"Up, old man!" The
overseer laughed—a deep, throaty chuckle. "Up and toil. I won't let you die
yet."

He screamed. Something
tore inside him.

It is over. I fade
now. I go to the stars of my forebears.

All around him, they
screamed—the children of Requiem, whipped, beaten, broken.

No. I am their
father, descended of their ancient king. I am their healer, their priest.
Jaren pushed himself up, arms wobbling.
I cannot die here. Not as hope still
flickers.

He rose to his bleeding
feet. He labored on.

As night fell again,
they gathered before his home. The weak carrying the weaker. The wounded
carrying the dying. Men, women, children with broken bones, open wounds across
their bodies. Swollen, bleeding, coughing, shivering, convulsing, festering.
The slaves of Tofet, broken, shattered, yet still clinging to life. Still
clinging to a dream—a dream of Meliora returning. A dream of seeing Requiem
again. Still clinging to life—so frail, so precious! A life even of pain, even
of fear, of this endless agony, of centuries of torment—still to live! Still
to draw one more breath, to see another dawn in the fields of dust and sweat, to
utter one more prayer. To hope. To dream. To pray to see dragons again.

Outside his hut they
gathered, dozens, then a hundred, and Jaren stood before them. He too was
wounded. He too needed healing, needed water, needed rest. But his children
needed him more.

"Come to me, my
children." Jaren opened his arms. "Come and pray with me."

One by one, they
approached. The first was a young girl, raped and beaten by her masters,
bleeding inside. Her mother placed her down. She could barely breathe, merely
lay gasping, raspy, gurgling. Jaren's eyes swam with tears as he knelt above
her, as he stared up at the stars, as he prayed. He was not a great healer like
Issari—the first priestess of Requiem—but he called upon her spirit, the
spirit that had healed his son. And in the shadows and light, he thought he saw
her form—a pious woman in robes, a braid hanging across her shoulders, her
tears falling onto the child who lay in the dirt.

The young girl's eyes
fluttered open, and she began to weep. Her mother stepped forth, lifted the
child, and wept too.

"Bless you, Jaren
Aeternum, shepherd of Requiem," she whispered.

The next slave
approached, a father carrying his son; the boy's back was crooked, his clothes
soaked with sweat and blood, his face torn in anguish. Again Jaren prayed,
holding his hands over the boy, as starlight shone, as the spirit of the
priestess wept, until the boy calmed.

Throughout the night
they came, and Jaren prayed, healing them as best he could, soothing those he
could not heal, guiding some into death. And even as dawn rose, and he returned
to his labor, the wounded spread across Tofet, and the dead kept falling.

As he worked in the
fields of clay, shivering with weakness and hunger, Jaren prayed a different
prayer.

"Return to us, my
children." His back burned in the sun. "Return to us, Meliora, Elory, Vale.
Return with hope. We need you. Hurry, my children. All the eyes of Requiem are
raised to you in hope."

 
 
LUCEM

People.

As they walked through the
wilderness, Lucem could barely believe it.

Real people. Flesh and blood.
Talking to me. Alive.

He looked at them. He had
only met them, yet Lucem already loved them both, never wanted to part from
them again.

Meliora was tall and fair,
her cheekbones high, and her eyes shone gold, the pupils shaped as
sunbursts—the eyes of a seraph. Yet kindness filled those eyes, and no wings
grew from her back, for her father was Vir Requis, and she carried with her the
pride and nobility of Requiem. Though clad in rough burlap, her body scratched
and caked with dirt, her grace gave her a godly presence, a holiness greater
than jewels and silk could ever bestow.

At her side walked Elory.
While Meliora was a striking figure—a goddess of ancient legend come to
life—Elory was fully of this world, a figure of warmth, of companionship, of
goodness. Her eyes were large and brown, too large in her small face. She was
short and slender—too slender—and scars peeked from under her tunic. Her head
was shaven, her neck collared, her body bruised, yet she was beautiful to
Lucem. A frail, warm, little thing, more precious than the greatest treasure.

Right away Lucem knew: he
would come to admire Meliora, to respect her, to worship her divinity . . . and
he would come to deeply love Elory, to connect with her soul, to see her as his
dearest friend. One woman of holiness, golden yet perhaps searing to the touch.
One woman of love, warm and soft and nothing but goodness.

Real people,
he
thought.
Real friends.

Lucem remembered his long
years in the wilderness—the friends he had carved from wood, painted onto
stone, dreamed of, invented in his madness. They began to fade from his mind.

And he talked.

He talked to Meliora and
Elory of old tales—of Requiem, sometimes myths of other lands. They talked
back. They shared stories. They told jokes. Walking along the river, they even
sang a song together.

And slowly it faded—that
pain, that loneliness . . . easing under the healing presence of them.

I had to remember how to
talk,
he thought.
Now I talk again. Now I'm real. Now I'm here. I
remember.

 
 
VALE

The sun was setting,
spilling red across the sky, when Vale and Tash reached the sea.

"It's beautiful," Tash
whispered.

Vale grumbled. "The
marble columns of Requiem are beautiful. The birch forests of the north are
beautiful. This is . . ." He sighed. "Fine. It's beautiful."

The delta spread around
them, lush with life. The Te'ephim River broke into many rivulets here, each
crawling along a different path. Lotuses covered the water in a blanket, pads
deep green and blossoms red fading to pink. Many fingers of land coiled between
the rivulets, and upon them grew wild grass, papyrus trees, date palms,
flowering tamarisks, and carob trees heavy with fruit. Birds flew above or
waded in the water. Vale saw terns, herons, plovers, egrets, ibises, and many
other species he could not name. Frogs trilled between rushes, and crocodiles
and hippopotamuses lay submerged in the water, only their nostrils rising above
the surface. A few miles away, the delta spilled into the sea, swirls of azure
and green water mingling with deep blue.

Yet along with the
birds and plants, other life lurked here too, not as appealing. Vale pointed. "Beautiful
aside from that."

Tash nodded and
nervously tugged her hair. "Does ruin the view, doesn't it?"

A city rose a mile or two
away from the greenery. Even from this distance, Vale spotted obelisks tipped
with gold, the columns of temples, and statues of gods that soared hundreds of
feet tall. What he first mistook for eagles circling the city he soon
recognized as seraphim.

"The city of Geshin,"
Tash said. She fingered the jewel in her navel. "This jewel came from there. As
did many of the gifts the seraphim gave me—pearls, incense, hintan, and even
little sweets. Do you see the ships out in the sea? They travel all along the
eastern coast of Terra and to the islands beyond, bringing back treasures from
distant lands."

Vale grunted. "I don't
care about what lies beyond the eastern sea. All I care about is the sea in the
north—beyond whose waters Requiem awaits us."

"Well, Sir Sour-boots,
we need to find the beached ship on this coast, and the Chest of Plenty in its
belly, if we're to ever reach the northern sea." Tash unfurled her scroll. "And
according to this map, the ship's wreck lies two days' journey north along the
beach. So come on. Let's get walking—and not stray too close to that city."

The sun dipped lower in
the sky behind them, casting their long shadows across the tussocks of grass.
Vale nodded. "We'll walk in darkness, and we'll keep a wide berth away from that
city." He stared up at the sky where the first stars were emerging. "Kloriana
shines in the east. We'll navigate by it."

"He can be taught!"
Tash patted his chest, making his chain mail—the rusty armor found in the
centipedes' cave—clink. "Just be careful not to stumble into the water in the
darkness. Oh, and try to walk hunched over. You're too tall and the moon's
full."

He grumbled and hefted
his axe. "Try hiding that jewel in your belly button. Damn thing reflects more
light than a knight's shield."

She stuck her tongue
out at him, grabbed a scoop of mud, and slapped it onto her belly. She thought
for a moment, smiled slyly, then scooped more mud and tossed it at Vale. He
rolled his eyes, wiped off the mud, and began to walk through the growing darkness.

Tash darted after him,
hopping around. "Go on, toss mud back at me!" She tugged his arm. "Grab me and
wrestle me and get pretend angry. Why are you always so serious?"

He ignored her and kept
walking, stepping through grass that rose past his knees. Why did the damn girl
keep annoying him? She never seemed to shut her mouth. She was always teasing
him, singing some song, even mumbling in her sleep. When awake, she bounced,
hopped, swung her arms, and skipped, and when sleeping she kicked and tossed
and turned. When she wasn't stripping naked to jump into the river, she still
haunted his thoughts with those mocking lips, knowing eyes, and teasing hands
that loved to brush against him.

"Answer me!" she said.
They walked through a grove of acacia and date palms. "You never sing. You
never laugh, not even at my wondrously funny jokes. You never tell jokes of
your own. You're always like . . . like you're at a funeral."

He knelt to lift a
bunch of fallen dates. "This fruit is still good." He kept walking. "We should
move faster. We can eat while we walk."

Tash groaned, crossed
her arms, and thumped down onto her backside. "No." She shook her head. "I'm
not going anywhere until you answer me."

"Very well." He kept
walking.

Tash let out a groan so
loud finches fled from the trees. "Vale!"

He reeled toward her. "Hush!
You're too loud."

"And you're too quiet!"
She stood up and placed her fists on her hips. "Why don't you ever talk to me?
Why are you so . . . so stiff? And not in a good way." She reached for his
crotch, and he swatted her hand away.