Requiem's Song (Book 1) (3 page)

And
all it would take,
Raem thought,
is
a single dragon to burn it. And so no single dragon must live.

He
approached a towering stone archway, its keystone engraved with the
winged bull—the god Kur-Paz, protector of the city, a deity of
plenty. Cedar doors banded with bronze stood open within the archway,
their knockers shaped as phalli, symbols of fertility and fortune.
Leaving the courtyard, Raem stepped through the archway and into a
towering hall. A mosaic spread across the floor, depicting sea
serpents wrapping around ships. Columns supported a domed ceiling
painted with scenes of cranes and falcons. As Raem walked, his
footfalls echoed.

When
he passed by a limestone statue, he paused, turned toward it, and
admired the work. He had ordered this statue—a likeness of
himself—carved only last year. The stone prince was an accurate
depiction—tall and broad, clad in ring armor, the face stern. The
jaw was as wide as the forehead, and small eyes stared from under a
great shelf of a brow. The head was bald, the chin protruding. Raem
was a towering man, and this statue—life-sized—towered over most
who walked by it. The shoulders were wide, the arms thick—a body
built for the battlefield, a body the god Taal would approve of.
Though fifty years of age, Raem kept himself strong, training with
his blade every day. He had seen nobles go soft in their palaces, far
from battles and fields, pampered with endless feasts, plays, and
other luxuries of wealth. Raem refused such decadence. He would keep
himself as strong as the gruffest soldier in his kingdom's army.

He
reached a staircase and climbed through the palace, passing by many
halls and chambers. Finally, five stories up, he emerged onto the
roof.

He
stood upon the edge and inhaled deeply, filling his nostrils with the
scent of the gardens around him, the city below, and the sea beyond.
Eteer, center of the Eteerian civilization, spread along the northern
coast. Home to two hundred thousand souls, here was a hive of
limestone houses topped with white domes, gardens leafy with palm and
fig trees, and cobbled streets lined with cypresses. Walls surrounded
the city and ran along the shore, topped with battlements.

The
greatest wonder of Eteer, however, was not its massive size, its
fabled gardens, or its towering walls, but the city's port. A canal
drove into Eteer, ending with a ring of water large enough to
surround a town. Other cities built ports that stretched into the
sea; Eteer brought the sea into the city. Dozens of ships navigated
this man-made canal, their sails high and bright. In hulls and upon
decks they carried the treasures of distant lands: spices, copper and
tin ore, exotic pets, collared slaves, and tales from across the
world.

Eteer
was a stronghold of might, a city none could conquer—not the
southern city-states with their own bronze blades, not the rising
desert tribes in the western desert of Tiranor, and certainly not the
fur-clad barbarians of the north.

Nobody
could harm this place, Raem knew . . . nobody but dragons.

"And
so they will die," he said, gazing upon the countless roofs and
streets below.

"Do
not be so quick to deal death, my son." The voice rose behind
him. "Only Taal, Father of All Gods, may doom us mere mortals to
our eternal rest or damnation."

Raem
frowned, anger filling his throat like bad wine, and turned away from
the view.

Gardens
covered the palace roof, lush and flowering, the greatest in a city
fabled for its greenery. Olive trees grew from wide clay pots,
twisting and ancient, their leaves deep green and their fruit
aromatic. Vines hung from terraces, their grapes deep purple. Flowers
of every kind bloomed, and finches fluttered among leafy branches.
Cobbled paths ran through the gardens, lined with statues, and a
stream ended with a waterfall that cascaded down the palace wall to a
pool below.

Nearly
invisible among the plants, clad in a simple green robe, stood Raem's
father, King Nir-Ur of House Seran.

At
seventy years of age, Nir-Ur still stood straight and tall, though
deep creases filled his face, and his beard was long and white as
milk. His eyes, glittering under bushy brows, were as blue as the
sea. A headdress of golden ivy and lapis lazuli crowned his head of
snowy hair. In gnarled hands, he held a small clay tablet engraved
with cuneiform prayers.

Raem
was a child of war, a soldier who had commanded armies in battle, a
man of bronze and blood. His father was a weaker sort of ruler, a man
who valued his gardens, his jewels, and the music he played upon his
lyre.

A
weak king,
Raem
thought, staring at the man.
A
weak father.

"The
cursed ones are a threat," Raem said, clutching the hilt of his
khopesh. "A threat I will not let grow. Not in this kingdom that
I love. I will not cower upon rooftop gardens while the disease
spreads through our mighty city, an abomination unto Taal." He
sneered at the clay tablet the king held. "You are a man of
words. I am a man of blades."

The
old king sighed. "Walk with me through the gardens, my son."

Not
waiting for a reply, the old man turned and began to head deeper into
the rooftop gardens, moving down the pebbled path.

"Let
us walk through the
city
!"
Raem reached out and grabbed his father's shoulder. "I care not
for strolls through a garden. March with me house by house, door by
door. We will break bones. We will cut off fingers. We will
interrogate the people until we find every last cursed, diseased
creature. I will behead them myself."

The
king turned back toward him. The old man's eyes dampened. The display
of weakness disgusted Raem.

Nir-Ur
spoke in a soft voice. "A curse? A disease? Raem . . . why do
you name it thus? Perhaps it is a gift from the stars; the dragons
rose in our kingdom once the dragon constellation began to shine.
Your own wife. Your own daughter, the innocent Laira. They could have
stayed with you, Raem, if only you had accepted their magic, their—"

Raem
struck his father.

He
struck so hard the old man fell to the ground. A family of cardinals
fled. The clay tablet shattered.

"A
gift!" Raem shouted, standing above his fallen father. "How
dare you speak thus. My wife is impure, an abomination. So is Laira.
When I discovered their filth—when I saw them shifting into reptiles
in the shadows—they fled me like cowards. Accept them? When I find
them in the northern, barbaric hinterlands, I will drag them back in
chains, and I will lock them in Aerhein Tower, and I will watch them
wither. They will beg for death before the end. Still the people of
this city mock me. I hear them speak behind my back, talking of the
prince who married a reptile, who fathered a reptile."

Blood
trickled down the king's chin. Lying on the path, he stared up with
watery eyes. "A reptile? Laira is your daughter, she—"

Raem
spat. "I have only two children. Sena is strong and pure, a
proud heir to the throne. Issari is a beautiful, chaste young woman,
a princess for the people to worship. Both are pure of body and
spirit. They inherited my blood. But
Laira
?
She inherited my wife's disease. She is a creature. When I find her,
she will suffer."

The
old king struggled to rise, arms shaking. When he coughed, blood
dripped onto the path. He managed to raise his head, and finally some
anger filled his eyes.

"You
are a fool," Nir-Ur said, no longer the kindly old man walking
through his gardens but a twisted wretch.

"The
only foolishness, Father, is letting our kingdom weaken." Raem
raised his sword. "I have led armies and vanquished the desert
tribes of Tiranor, the southern city-states who would rival our
kingdom if left to grow, and the northern barbarians across the sea.
I strengthened these walls, and I placed a bronze khopesh in the hand
of every soldier in our kingdom. I did this for Eteer's glory—not to
see the reptiles rise, to see this dawn of dragons undo my work. They
would be the death of us all if they bred." He trembled with
rage. "I will eradicate the curse."

Blood
trickling down his chin, King Nir-Ur pointed at his son, and his eyes
hardened with cold rage. "Then, my son, you are no longer my
heir. Raem, I disavow you. I—"

Raem's
bronze sword sliced into his father's chest, passing between ribs.

"And
I will eradicate any who stand in my way," said Raem, tugging
the blade back with a red curtain.

His
father stared at him, eyes wide. Blood dripped from his mouth and
down his chest. He tried to speak but only hoarse gasps left his
mouth. The old king—frail, weak, his time done—fell.

"Raem,"
the old man managed to whisper, clutching his wound. "Your own
son . . . your heir . . . Prince Sena has the gift."

Raem
stared down at the dying man, and rage exploded through him. "Even
with your last breath, you lie."

His
father reached out and touched Raem's leg. Tears streamed down his
creased cheeks. "Accept your son. You already lost a daughter.
When you learn what Sena is . . . accept him. For our family. For—"

Raem
swung his sword again.

The
blade sank into the king's neck, and the old man spoke no more.
Nir-Ur collapsed onto his back, fingers curled like talons, dead eyes
gazing upon the birds he had loved.

"You
were a traitor," Raem whispered, and suddenly a tremble seized
him. "You were a lover of weredragons. You spoke heresy."

He
looked down at his slain father. Raem had faced barbarian hordes in
battle. He had slain dozens of men, maybe hundreds, and the scars of
wars covered his body. He had never flinched from bloodshed before,
but now he shook, and now his eyes burned, and now he felt very
young—a humble boy in the courts of a rising kingdom, so afraid, so
alone in a palace of shadows and echoes. A boy with a secret. A boy
with a shame.

He
turned away.

He
all but fled the rooftop gardens.

He
raced through his palace, bloody sword in hand, ignoring the startled
looks of scribes, slaves, and guards.

I
exiled my wife and firstborn child. I killed my father. I must see my
two remaining children, the noble Sena, the beautiful Issari.
His breath shook in his lungs.
I
must see the purity that remains.

When
he found Sena, he would pull the boy into an embrace. He would tell
his son: You are noble, you are strong and pure, and I will never be
a weak father to you, for you make me proud.

Down
several staircases and halls, he reached the tall bronze doors of his
children's chamber. Without knocking, desperate to see his son and
daughter, Raem barged into the room.

He
froze.

His
heart seemed to fall still.

His
breath died.

The
chamber was large, nearly as large as a throne room. A mosaic
featuring birds, beasts, and fish covered the floor, and blue columns
topped with golden capitals supported a ceiling painted with suns and
stars. Stone figurines—carved as hunters, cattle, boats, and
chariots—stood in alcoves. The chamber's giltwood beds, tables, and
divans had been pushed against the walls. In the center of the
chamber, nearly filling even this vast room, stood a dragon.

The
dragon sported blue scales—blue as the sea outside, blue as the
columns, blue as the god Taal's banners. The beast's horns were long
and white, and its eyes seemed young, afraid.

Raem's
youngest child, the beautiful Princess Issari, stood before the
dragon. Her raven braid hung across her shoulder, and a headdress of
topaz gemstones and golden olive leaves crowned her head. Clad in a
slim, white gown hemmed with golden tassels, she had her hand upon
the dragon's snout.

"Father,"
the princess whispered. She withdrew her hand and stepped backward.

"Father,"
said the dragon, speaking with the same fear . . . and changed.

The
beast's wings pulled into its back. Its scales, horns, and claws
vanished. It stood on its rear legs and shrank, becoming a young man
clad in white.

"Sena,"
Raem whispered. His eyes watered. "My son . . . you are . . ."

Raem
trembled. He could barely see; the world turned red with his rage. He
raised his sword, and he shouted, and his children fled from him, and
all the palace, and all the city, and all the kingdom seemed to
collapse around him.

 
 
LAIRA

On
her twentieth autumn, Laira knelt in the mud, scrubbing her
chieftain's feet.

"Clean
them good, you maggot," Zerra said and spat upon her. "I
think I stepped on some boar dung. Fitting for a piece of shite like
you."

The
chieftain—clad in furs, his face leathery, his shaggy hair wild—sat
upon a fallen log peppered with holes. Mud squelched below them, and
patches of yellow grass covered the surrounding hills like thinning
hair on old scalps. Few trees grew here, only a few scattered oaks
and elms crowned with red leaves. Mossy boulders lay strewn like the
scattered teeth of a giant. It was a place of mist, of wind, of mud
and rock.

The
Goldtusk tribe had been traveling south for two moons now, seeking
the warm coast for the coming winter. There would be fish there,
herds of bison, and geese to hunt, a place of plenty for the cold
moons. Zerra boasted that the weak villagers, those who built walls
and plowed fields, suffered in the snow, while he—leading a proud
tribe that followed ancient ways—would give his people warm air and
full bellies even in the winter.

Yet
Laira knew the southern coast would offer her no relief. There too
Zerra would all but starve her, feeding her only scraps—fish bones,
rubbery skin, sometimes the juice of berries to lick from clay bowls.
No plenty for her, Laira, the daughter of a dragon. In the south too,
he would allow her no tent; she would sleep outside as always in the
mud, tethered and penned with the dogs, nothing but her cloak of
rodent furs to shield her from the wind and rain.