Crown of Dragonfire (24 page)

Ishtafel's hand reached
out, fast as a striking snake, and grabbed Jaren's throat. The fingers
squeezed.

Jaren gasped for
breath. Stars spread before his eyes. The tendons in his neck creaked. Bringing
his face close, Ishtafel snarled, and now those eyes blazed with unadulterated
hatred.

"You sent your children
into the wild," he hissed. "Vale, the worm I pinned to my palace. Elory, the
pathetic little wench who fled my bed. And Meliora . . . sweetest Meliora, my
sister, your daughter." Ishtafel barked a laugh. "That makes us related, doesn't
it, old man? You bedded my mother, didn't you? She was a fine woman. Beautiful.
Lovely teats I loved to suck on myself as a baby. Of course, I enjoyed sucking
her blood more."

"My—my lord!" Jaren
managed. "If you would kill me, then kill me. I—"

Ishtafel released his
grip, tossing Jaren down. He fell to his knees, clutched his throat, gasped for
breath.

"Kill you?" Ishtafel
laughed. "But then my fun would end! How would I torture you if you were dead?
No, old man." Ishtafel drove down his heel, stomping Jaren's wrist, pinning his
hand down, creaking the bones. "I want you to live, Jaren Aeternum. I want you
to live to see your people die, your children suffer, your nation collapse."

"Why?" Jaren whispered,
hoarse, his wrist twisted under Ishtafel's boot. "We build you monuments. We
dig bitumen. Why—"

"I need no more
monuments, old man. All my work in this world is completed, all my enemies
conquered. But now I found a new task, a new game. To slowly destroy Requiem.
Life by life. A slow death." Ishtafel licked his lips. "And you will be the
last to die, heir of reptilian kings."

Ishtafel released his
heel, and Jaren pulled his wounded arm to his chest, cradling the wrist. "Is
that why you came here?" Jaren whispered, staring at Ishtafel. "To tell me
that?"

Ishtafel raised his
eyebrows. "Oh, but that would be so rude! To simply come unannounced to bandy
words? No, Jaren. I came here to bring you something. A gift." He reached into
his cloak, pulled out a bundle of cloth, and tossed it at Jaren. "A memento
from Elory. Enjoy what remains of her, for you won't see the rest of her again."

With that, Ishtafel turned
and marched out of the hut.

Jaren didn't want to
look, didn't want to know, but his fingers seemed to move on their own,
unfolding the bundle.

His breath caught and he
wrapped up the cloth again. He closed his eyes, but he still saw it there: a
bloody ear. Elory's ear.

His breath burst into a
pant now, his heart into a gallop, and the hut spun around him.

Elory . . . oh
stars, Elory . . .

Sweat soaked Jaren, and
his head wouldn't stop spinning. He had to do something, to bury it, to find
Elory, to save her if she still lived. He had to lean against the wall, and
blackness spread across him.

Shivering, he stepped
out into the night.

The huts of Tofet
spread around him in the blackness. The land was silent but for the scattered
sounds of weeping and moaning. The air was hot, soupy, and his sweat wouldn't
dry. Jaren forced himself to walk, each step a struggle, each breath a battle,
until he reached a patch of dry earth. He buried the ear there, buried a piece
of his daughter, and the memory of burying his wife filled him, a memory like a
demon, clawing inside him. He fell to his knees in the dirt between the huts,
and his tears fell.

I spend my nights
healing others, but how can I heal my daughter? How can I stop this pain?

He lowered his head and
closed his eyes.

Please, stars of
Requiem, if you can hear my prayers from this place, show me mercy, show me
your light.

And in the darkness,
the light of stars shone.

Kneeling in the dust,
Jaren raised his head, and above him he saw columns woven of starlight, pale
birches coated in frost, a glittering hall all in light. The pain, the fear,
the weariness, all seemed to fade in this place, and Jaren floated through the
halls of ancient Requiem.

Figures were moving
between the columns, appearing, vanishing, cloaked in white. Harp strings played,
echoing, fading, notes from many songs. He glimpsed ancient kings and queens,
heroes and heroines, warriors and priests, the ghosts of old Requiem, those who
had fought the demons, the griffins, the phoenixes, the countless enemies who
had tried to topple these halls. All now memories, myths, beams of starlight,
and fragments of song.

Ahead Jaren could make
out three figures, all cloaked in light. When he drew closer, they came into
focus, the light parting to reveal their forms.

A woman sat on a
throne, golden locks framing her pale face. Her eyes shone blue-green, and she
wore pale armor. Here was Queen Gloriae Aeternum who had raised Requiem from
ruin and restored her to glory. At her left side stood a young prince, his
yellow hair falling across his brow, his brown eyes eager—Kyrie Eleison,
guardian of the throne. At the queen's right side stood a young woman, tall and
clad in leggings and a tan vest, her mane of black curls cascading across her
shoulders—Agnus Dei, the queen's twin sister, a woman who had slain many
enemies of Requiem.

My ancestors,
Jaren thought, kneeling before them.
The great warriors of Requiem who
rebuilt our nation from only seven survivors.

Queen Gloriae rose from
her throne and held up her hand. "Rise, Jaren Aeternum, son of Requiem."

At her side, Agnus Dei
tilted her head and squinted. "He looks a bit like me. Same noble eyes."

Young Kyrie snorted. "There
are warthogs who look nobler than you do, Agnus Dei. Don't insult the man."

Her eyes widened, and
Agnus Dei let out a roar. "Be quiet, pup! Or I'm going to ram into you like a
warthog."

"You're thinking of
bulls," Kyrie said. "Bulls ram. Warthogs just rut in the dirt and mud."

"Oh, you enjoyed
rutting in the mud last time we went out on a hike," Agnus Dei said, smiling
crookedly, and Kyrie blushed a deep crimson.

"Hush, Agnus Dei!" the
boy said.

Queen Gloriae glared at
the two. "Hush the both of you!" She returned her eyes to Jaren, and her gaze
softened. "Forgive their frivolity, my son, for here is a realm where all
worries, all pain have ended."

Kyrie snorted. "Not
when Agnus Dei slaps me. That still hurts."

Agnus Dei raised her
fist. "I'm going to pound you to prove it, pup."

"Hush!" Gloriae said
again. She stepped closer to Jaren, placed her hands on his shoulders, and
smiled. The starlight clung to her, spreading out to warm him, to soothe him. "Your
stars do not forget you, Jaren. Nor do the souls of your ancestors. We've heard
your prayers, and we weep for the pain we see in the world. We weep that we
cannot fight for Requiem anymore, for our wars have ended, and the torch has
passed. To you, Jaren. To your children. They are alive, my son. They still
quest for hope, though the road is full of many dangers, and much darkness must
pass before the light shines upon them. Do not abandon your hope, for hope
shines even in the greatest darkness. So long as you can draw another breath,
take another step, live for another heartbeat—there is hope." She leaned
forward and kissed his cheek. "Sometimes you cannot see the stars, but they
always shine. Even when blinded, even in total darkness, there is always light."

That light now grew
brighter, streaming all across Jaren, blinding him, healing him, and when he
could see again, he was back in the dirt of Tofet.

Had he fainted, merely
dreamed? Or had he seen a true vision of the celestial Requiem beyond the
stars? He didn't know. A voice seemed to echo within him, perhaps his own,
perhaps the voice of Queen Gloriae, fading like the last note in a harp's song.

There is always
hope. There is always light.

"You're alive, Elory,"
Jaren whispered. "I know that you're alive. Stay strong, my sweet daughter. I
love you. I will see you again."

Dawn broke. Jaren rose
to his feet, and his work continued.

 
 
VALE

He woke up at sunset, lying
on the sand, Tash nestled against him.

Soon their journey
would continue, but Vale just wanted to lie here, to never get up. A blanket of
fronds covered them, hiding them from the world; should any seraphim fly above,
they'd see nothing but some scattered branches on the beach. The waves
whispered, and between the palm branches, Vale could see the sky fade to deep
blue and gold. He lay on his back, and Tash still slept, her cheek against his
chest. Her leg was tossed across his, and his arms were wrapped around her, his
hand resting on the small of her back. She slept naked, her skin soft and warm
against him.

He looked at her in the
dying light. When awake, Tash was always speaking, singing, mumbling to
herself, and prancing around. Yet sleeping, she seemed so peaceful, so young, almost
fragile. She knew so much more about the world, but Vale realized how young she
was—barely more than a youth.

As am I,
Vale
thought.
Yet I feel so much older.

On their journey, Tash
had spoken of healing him, of bringing joy back into his life. But right now,
lying here, Vale felt that it was his task to protect her, to heal her, to
fight the world for her.

I love you, Tash,
he
thought and kissed the top of her head.
I've never loved another, and you
light my life. You light my life of darkness. For you, I will fight armies, I
will burn the world to protect you.

She mumbled in her
sleep, lips scrunching together, and opened her eyes. She smiled at him.

"Where's my morning
tea?" she asked.

He ran his fingers up
and down her back. "We have a few sips of water left. How's that?"

She pouted. "I demand
that you fetch me tea and cupcakes, my handsome servant."

He gave her backside a
playful pat. "Once you fetch me my slippers, my lovely maid."

She gasped. "You did
not just do that! Not you!" She grinned and bit her lip. "I
am
teaching
you to have fun, aren't I? I knew I could do it! Soon you'll be whistling and
dancing."

"Not likely," he said.

"I'm going to
make
you dance. Make you!" She crawled atop him and chomped down on his nose. "A
special kind of dance, at least."

As the sun set, she
tossed back her head, straddling him, moving atop him. He held her slender
waist, then ran his hands across her body, marveling at every curve of her, at
the softness of her skin, and she grasped his chest so tightly it almost hurt.
When he could not bear it any longer, he rolled her over, and she lay beneath
him, wrapping her limbs around him, and he clutched her hands and squeezed
them, and she cried out his name.

They lay together,
breathing deeply.

"You
are
a good
dancer," Tash said.

"I'm still not singing."

She nibbled his bottom
lip. "Next time I'll make you burst into song. That's my new goal." She grew
serious, then wrapped her arms around him and held him close, nuzzling his
neck. "You're the best I've ever had, Vale. All the other men . . . that was
work. Same as your work in the fields. You're the first man I ever made true
love to." She rose to her feet. "So let's go find this Chest of Plenty, because
I want to do this many, many more times."

He nodded and reached
for her breasts. "How about Plenty of Chest?"

She groaned and slapped
his hand away. "Now you're making jokes! Lovely." She looked down at her chest.
"And sadly, these little pups aren't nearly plentiful enough." She tugged him
to his feet. "So let's keep going."

As the sun vanished,
they walked along the beach. Only the moon lit their way. The waves rolled
across their bare feet, and sea shells gleamed in the moonlight. Tash reached
out and held his hand, and Vale wondered what it would be like to be
free—truly free, no collar around their necks, no people waiting for them to
return with a magical chest. To just . . . go out some nights with Tash and walk.
Walk as far as they wanted, for as long as they wanted. To make love whenever
they pleased.

And to shift into
dragons.

Vale thought back to
that day—that most wonderful and horrible of days. For the first time in his
life, he had been without a collar, tasked with carrying heavy stones to the
top of columns. For the first time, he had used his magic, become a dragon,
flown into the sky, battled his enemies. The day ended with his blood, with
nails driving through him, with his death upon the wall and resurrection at the
hands of Issari, the Priestess in White. That day he had learned that he still
had a battle to fight.

Someday I will fly
again,
he thought.
Someday we all will, not in battle, not for glory or
blood. We'll fly together in peace, Tash and I under the moonlight.

As they walked, they
talked of the Requiem that had been, the Requiem from the stories. He spoke of
the first King Aeternum, his ancestor, who had founded a kingdom for those
outcast, those hunted, those who could become dragons, and of that ancient king's
war against an army of demons. Tash then spoke, telling him that she was
descended from the great Kyrie Eleison, a prince of Requiem who had survived
the griffins, who had fought with Queen Gloriae herself to rebuild Requiem from
ancient ruin. They spoke too of the legendary King Elethor and Queen Lyana who
had defeated the phoenixes, the wyverns, and the nephilim, and they told tales
of Requiem's tragic civil war, and how Rune and Tilla, star-crossed lovers, had
fought against each other in one of Requiem's darkest hours.

"Do you think that in
hundreds of years, people will tell tales of us?" Tash asked.

Vale nodded. "They'll
probably tell the story about how you ate centipede shit."