Requiem's Song (Book 1) (22 page)

The thriving boardwalk Issari
had known was gone. No more jugglers, puppeteers, or buskers
performed here. No more peddlers hawked dried fruits, salted nuts, or
their own bodies. The booths of seers, healers, and games of chance
were gone. What sailors remained moved methodically and wordlessly,
loading and unloading their wares from the ships that lined the
piers. Issari had once found the smell of salt, fish, and sailors
unsavory. Today the place reeked of rot, and she missed the old
aroma.

At every pier stood a guardian
of the Abyss—some taller than three men and lanky as poles, others
squat, some dripping, some dry, some hooked and bladed, some wet and
soft, some hooded in rags, others naked and glistening. As every
sailor walked the planks, stepping on and off the ships, the demons
sniffed, groped, drooled, seeking weredragon blood.

"I will be brave,"
whispered the potter's girl, clutching Issari's hand.

I
will be brave,
Issari thought, chin raised, as she walked along the wet
cobblestones.

The boardwalk took them along
the canal that thrust into the city. Without the usual chants of
sailors, cries of peddlers, and bustle of merchants, the place seemed
eerily silent. Even the gulls had fled. Issari and the family walked
by a towering, tree-like creature, its many eyeballs blinking upon
fleshy branches. Each of its fingers sprouted its own hand, twitching
and sporting rotten claws. Issari forced herself to keep walking
calmly, ignoring every demon they passed.

Finally,
at the edge of the canal, the scent of open sea filled her nostrils,
some relief from the stench of the Abyss. There she waited: the
Silver Porpois
e,
a long ship of many oars, her canvas sails wide. She was a ship of
traders; she had brought Eteer many fur pelts, barrels of tin ore,
and salted meats from the lands across the sea. Now the
Silver Porpoise
sailed north again—with bronze tools, soft cotton, southern Eteerian
spices . . . and hidden life.

"This ship will take you
into the sea," Issari whispered to the family around her. "She
will take you to the cold north. She will take you to hope, to new
life."

A towering, demonic spider
guarded the ship, human heads speared upon each of its legs, their
eyes still moving, their mouths sucking in air. The creature tried to
clatter toward Issari, and the severed heads opened their mouths
wide, revealing metal teeth. At the sight of the amulet, the spider
hissed and darted back, cowering against the ship's hull.

"These are sailors,"
Issari said. She forced herself to glare at the spiderlike demon,
though her insides trembled. "You will let them pass, and you
will not speak of them, or this amulet will burn you."

The demon squirmed and hissed,
and the family members began to board, walking up the plank one by
one. Issari hugged the young child.

"You will be brave,"
she whispered.

The girl nodded and touched
Issari's cheek. "You will be brave too. You need bravery more
than I do."

With that, the child ran onto
the ship.

Issari climbed the city wall,
and she stood between the battlements for a long time, watching the
ship sail away. The family stood at the stern, looking at her, and
the little girl raised a hand in farewell. The distance swallowed
them until the ship was just a speck . . . and then was gone.

Issari lowered her head. The
stench and laughter of demons wafted from below, and she wished that
she too could sail away, she too could leave this kingdom behind. But
she must stay. She had more to save. She must save whatever
weredragons she could, whatever brides the demons wanted to claim,
and whatever remained of her kingdom's light.

She turned around and faced the
city again. Across hills of homes and shops and winding streets,
Issari saw it rising—Aerhein Tower. In that cell he languished—her
brother.

"And I must save you too."

Wind blew, scented of rot and
blood. A distant scream rose—the demons claiming another bride or
perhaps slaying another weredragon. So much death, so much pain; how
could she stop this?

"My father is in the north
now, hunting Laira," she whispered to herself. "Taal . . .
please. Please let Laira kill him." She found herself clenching
her fists. "Let my father, King Raem Seran, die in dragonfire."

The thought horrified her, and
she gasped and covered her mouth. She was his daughter! She was
Princess Issari Seran, heiress to the throne!

She tightened her jaw. Her knees
shook. She reached into her robes and clutched the hilt of her
dagger. She pulled her hood low, climbed off the wall, and walked
home in silence.

 
 
LAIRA

When dawn broke, Laira felt so
cold, hurt, and weak that she wasn't sure she could rise.

She lay under the pile of
leaves, her breath frosted. When she touched her hair—short, ragged
strands Zerra had cut himself—she found it frosted into hard spikes.
Fingers numb, she parted the blanket of dry leaves covering her and
gazed up at the forest. Mist floated, and the boles of maples and
birches seemed black in the dawn, rising to an orange canopy. A
murder of crows sat upon the branches, staring down at her with beady
eyes.

They're
waiting for me to die,
she thought.
But
I won't.

She
rose. Naked and trembling, she approached the branch where she had
hung her patchwork fur cloak to dry. It was still wet. Laira hugged
herself, shivering, teeth chattering. She should never have washed
the garments in the river; she should have let the dung dry, then
shaken off the flecks. Now the cold would kill her just as readily as
the rocs or her wounds. She examined those wounds and winced. The
welts on her feet were swollen, and one seemed full of pus.

"It's infected," she
whispered, every word sending out puffs of frost. "I need
healing herbs or the rot will crawl up my leg."

She wondered if she could find
another tribe; others wandered the plains and forests, hunting and
gathering and sometimes battling one another, and they had shamans of
their own, perhaps less cruel than Shedah who would only scorn,
strike, and spit upon Laira whenever she asked for a poultice. Yet
Laira remembered the few times she had seen the other tribes, nomadic
groups bearing their own totems—bronzed skulls of beasts, gilded
buffalo horns, and even one tribe that bore the mummified body of a
goddess child. Whenever Goldtusk would come across another tribe,
arrows flew, spears thrust, and often lives were lost.

"If they find me, they'll
know I'm a stranger," Laira said through chattering teeth.
"They'll kill me or worse—capture me to be their slave. They
will not heal me."

But
. . .
they
could heal her.

The thought filled her with both
hope and fear—hope for finding others like her, fear that others
were only a myth. Perhaps in all the world, Mother had been the only
other weredragon. Perhaps Laira was the last.

"But if that's true, let me
die in the wilderness."

She shoved her frozen hands
under her armpits and hopped around for warmth. She considered
donning her wet cloak but decided it would only chill her further.
After a moment's hesitation, she lay down and rolled around in the
mud along the riverbank, then in piles of dry leaves. When she rose
again, she wore a garment of the forest. It was an ugly thing, but it
would keep her warm and provide some camouflage. She lifted a fallen
branch, slung her wet fur upon it, and carried the bundle over her
shoulder. She kept limping through the forest, heading north, her
burnt feet aching with every step. Despite the pain, she dared not
fly. Here under the canopy she was hidden; in the open air, she would
be seen for marks around.

Today she heard no rocs; perhaps
they had abandoned the search or were searching too far away. As she
walked and the sun rose, some of her chill left her, and a new
discomfort arose—hunger.

"If it's not the rocs, my
wounds, or the cold, hunger can still kill me," she said to
herself and looked around, determined to find a meal.

She saw no more mushrooms, no
pine cones, no berries. The canopy was thicker here than farther
south, letting in less light; less grass, brambles, and reeds grew
from the forest floor. That floor was a crunching carpet of dry
leaves, fallen boles, and mossy boulders. Mist floated between the
trunks and birds called above, too far to grab. If she still had her
bow, Laira could have tried to hunt them, but now they were morsels
beyond her reach.

She lifted a fallen branch and
spent a while sharpening it against a shard of flint, forming a crude
spear. It was noon when she finally saw a rabbit, tossed her spear,
and missed. The animal fled into the distance. Her belly growled, and
she thought it would soon stick to her back. Thirst dried her mouth.
She had left the stream behind, for it traveled west while she moved
north, seeking the fabled escarpment.

When it began to rain, she was
thankful for the water—she drank some off flat leaves—but it made
her colder. The downpour washed off her garment of mud and leaves,
and strands of her hair hung over her eyes. At least the rain brought
out some worms. She managed to catch three. She stuffed them into her
mouth, chewed, and swallowed before her disgust could overwhelm her.

Resigned to being wet, she
dressed in her drenched tunic and cloak. The rat fur clung to her,
clammy and still foul; she doubted the smell would ever leave it. The
rain kept pouring, and her spirits dampened with it. She could not
stop shivering, but still she walked on.

It was afternoon and her belly
was rumbling when she finally saw the bush of blueberries. Her mouth
watered. The rain was finally easing up and a real meal waited ahead.

"A little gift of hope,"
she whispered.

Swaying with weakness, she
walked toward the berries, already tasting the healing sweetness.

A growl rose.

Laira was only steps away when
the bear emerged from behind the trees.

Shaggy and black, the beast
placed itself between her and the berries, rose upon its back feet,
and roared.

Laira froze.

She held only her pointed stick
as a weapon. She was a small, scrawny thing, barely larger than a
child. Before her bellowed an animal that could slay her with a
single swipe of its claws.

Stand
still, Laira,
she thought.
If
you flee, he'll see you as prey. He'll chase. Stand your ground.

The bear fell back to all four
paws, snorted, and turned toward the berries. It began to eat.

Laira found herself growling.
Hunger and weakness gave her the courage she'd normally lack. That
was her meal. Three worms were not enough. Without these berries, she
could die.

Pointed stick raised, she took a
step closer to the berries. Maw stained blue, the bear turned back
toward her and growled.

"Away!" Laira waved
her stick and bared her teeth. "Go, go! My berries!"

It reared again, several times
her size, and lashed its claws. Laira leaped back, waving her stick.

"Go! Go!"

It swiped at her again, and she
stepped backward, tripped over a root, and fell into the dry leaves.

The bear drove down to bite.

Laira winced, reached down deep
inside her, and grabbed her magic.

The bear's fangs slammed against
her scales.

Wings grew from her back,
pushing her up. Her own fangs sprouted. Her tail whipped, cracking a
tree, and her face lengthened into a snout. With hunger and fear, she
lashed her hand—only it was no longer a hand but a dragon's foot,
clawed and scaled. It slammed into the bear, knocking the small
animal down; the beast now seemed smaller than a cub. Laira leaned
down and bit deep, tearing through fur, ripping off flesh, tasting
hot blood and sweet meat, and she knew nothing but her hunger and
craving and the heat of the meal. She feasted.

She ate the bear down to the
bones.

When her meal was done, she lay
on her scaly back, smoke pluming from her nostrils. She was no longer
hungry. She was no longer cold. Her wounds—agonizing to her human
form—seemed like mere scratches now.

"I can lie like this for a
while," she said softly. She was surprised to hear that her
voice, even in dragon form, was the same. "I haven't heard rocs
since this morning. I will lie a while and digest."

She wouldn't even consider
returning to her human form with an entire bear in her belly. That
could not end well.

Her furs were gone. She had
taken them inside her when shifting, and yet her pointed stick lay
beside her. She wondered why clothes could shift with her—they had
reappeared last time she had returned to human form—and not the
stick.

"If I ever do find others,
maybe they'll know how the magic works."

She tilted her head, scales
clanking. Magic? For so long, she had thought this a curse, a
reptilian disease. Yet lying here, her belly full and warm, it was
hard to think of shifting as a curse.

"Maybe it's a gift,"
she said to the rustling autumn leaves above. "And maybe others
like me are out there, alone and afraid. I have to find them."

As she lay digesting, she
thought she heard a roc once, but it was distant, possibly only a
crow. When the sun set, Laira rose to her clawed feet. Her body
pressed against the trees, and fire sparked in her maw, raising
smoke.

Tonight she would not sleep in a
hole, small and afraid and hurt. Tonight she would fly.

She crashed through the canopy,
showering autumn leaves, and into the sky. The stars spread above
her, an endless carpet. The Draco constellation shone above,
brightest among them, cold and distant but warming her soul. She beat
her wings, bending trees and scattering leaves below. For so many
years, she had felt weak, miserable, and worthless.