Requiem's Song (Book 1) (34 page)

Jeid straightened and looked at
his new people. Young. Afraid. Looking to him for guidance. He spoke
softly as the snow fell.

"Thus, with leaf and stone,
we say goodbye." The others stared at him, eyes large, lips
tight. "Thus, with blood and fire, we defended our home. We fled
a village, a tribe, a southern kingdom. All over the world they hunt
us—the people they call diseased, the cursed ones they call
weredragons. But we are blessed. We are Vir Requis, and our magic
comes from the stars." He looked up at that sky as if, past the
pale sunlight and clouds, he could see those stars. "For a long
time, I called Requiem a tribe. Tribes move across the world, seeking
safety, struggling to survive." Jeid shook his head. "Requiem
will be no tribe. We will be a kingdom." He looked back at them,
meeting their eyes one by one. "We will tell the world: You can
no longer hunt us. We will no longer hide. No more will the children
of Requiem hide underground, ashamed, afraid."

They nodded. Maev growled and
raised her fist. Tanin punched his palm and sneered. Laira's eyes lit
up, and she raised her chin, and even her brother straightened and
gazed ahead with pride.

"We will stand proud!"
Jeid said, his voice rising louder. "We are only five, but more
will join us. Many more Vir Requis hide across the world, afraid,
believing they are cursed. We will trumpet our cause and call our
people home. We will raise a palace of stone, and we will tell all
tribes and nations: If you hunt us, you will die. If you attack us,
you will burn. Dragons will rise! The kingdom of Requiem will last
ten thousand years."

"Yes!" Maev said. The
young woman shifted into a dragon, beat her wings, and soared. She
raised a great pillar of fire, and her roar pealed across the land.
"Requiem! I fight for you."

One by one, the others shifted
too. They took flight, roaring for Requiem.

Only Jeid remained on the
ground, still in human form. He looked down at the graves, and his
eyes stung.

For
you, Father. For you, my daughter. For you, unknown warrior. For all
those who've died.

He looked up at the sky, shifted
too, and took flight. He joined the others. They hovered above the
hills and valleys, and Jeid added his flames to theirs. Five jets
rose, spinning and crackling with heat and light, wreathing together
into a great column of fire, a beacon for hope, for life, and for a
new home.

They flew through the day and
night, five dragons no longer afraid, until they reached the great
mountains of Dair Ranin. There their claws dug, cutting loose marble
from the mountainside, a great round pillar they could not carry, but
which they rolled across the hills and valleys upon a wagon of logs.

For long days they worked in the
forest, carving, smoothing, sculpting, using both dragon claws and
bronze tools. The rocs awaited them in the hills beyond, for here
among these birches—here was holy ground, blessed with dragon
starlight. Fresh snow covered the trees when finally their work was
done. A great column rose between the birches, three hundred feet
tall, its marble smooth and glittering like the snow, its capital
shaped as rearing dragons.

They stood before the pillar,
five dragons, dwarfed by the size of their creation. It seemed to
Jeid that the pillar glimmered with inner light. A circle of marble
tiles stretched around it, and birch leaves scuttled upon the
polished stone. In the distance, rising above the forest, sunlight
gilded the distant mountains.

"The Column of Requiem,"
Jeid said. He shifted back into human form and placed a hand upon it.
"A beacon to draw our kind to this forest like a lighthouse
draws in ships."

Laira shifted back into human
form too. She held Jeid's hand and leaned against him.

"Requiem is a true kingdom
now." She stared up at the pillar. "But we need a king."
She looked at him and touched his cheek. "You vowed to lead us.
Be our king."

The others gathered closer, also
resuming human forms. They nodded, one by one.

Jeid barked a laugh. "King
Jeid Blacksmith? Doesn't sound very kingly."

"It sounds bloody stupid,"
Maev said and spat.

Laira smiled and placed her
small, pale hand against Jeid's wide chest. "You told us that
Requiem will last ten thousand years. But Requiem will last for
eternity. Give yourself a new name, not the name of a blacksmith but
the name of a dragon. Become King Aeternum, a king whose song will
echo through the ages."

Beside them, Tanin nodded in
approval. "King Aeternum. I like it. Future generations might
even think Jeid was noble, not a grizzled, gruff grizzly."

"The only thing eternal
about Grizzly is his appetite," Maev muttered.

Jeid sighed and shook his head.
Ignoring his children, he looked back up at the column. It soared
past the treetops toward the clouds, and the sun fell upon the
capital, breaking into many beams.

I
hope you are watching, Father,
Jeid thought.
I
hope you are proud.

Laira let go of his hand,
stepped forward, and touched the column. She smiled softly and closed
her eyes. When she sang, her voice—passing through her crooked
jaw—barely sounded slurred to her but high and pure.

"
As
the leaves fall upon our marble tiles, as the breeze rustles the
birches beyond our column, as the sun gilds the mountains above our
halls—know, young child of the woods, you are home, you are home."
She opened her eyes, smiled, and looked up at the pale clouds.
"Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."

Jeid smiled too. He repeated the
prayer, a new song, a holy song—Requiem's song. The others joined in
and their voices rose together.

"Requiem! May our wings
forever find your sky."

 
 
ISSARI

The city-state of Eteer—center
of a civilization, a light to the world—lay charred and crumbled.

Issari stood upon her balcony,
staring at the destruction. Aerhein Tower, the prison which had once
held her brother, lay fallen, crushing houses beneath it. Blood and
gobbets of demon flesh covered the city domes, courtyards, and
cobbled streets. Half the trees had burned, and ash rained across the
balcony, remnants of the fire upon the palace roof.

"Two dragons came to this
city," Issari whispered, the smoky wind invading her nostrils.
"Three left. And here I remain, an heiress to a broken land."

The demons too remained, still
marring her city. Dozens had died in the dragon onslaught. But Angel,
their queen, still crackled in the underground, moving through the
city sewers, nursing her wounds and blasting flame and smoke through
sewage holes. Hundreds of her minions still covered the roofs,
gardens, and streets, screeching and cackling. Hundreds of women
walked the streets, dazed, holding their growing bellies; the spawn
of demons festered in their wombs.

Issari winced in sudden pain.
The welts on her back blazed with agony if she even breathed too
deeply. When her father had returned to the city—only three days
ago—he had beaten her, whipping her back until she bled.

"I left you here alone for
a month," King Raem had said, voice cold. "I left you, my
heiress, to rule this city, and I return to find it in ruins."

She had not wanted to scream.
She had vowed to remain silent under his lash. Yet as he had beaten
her, and as her blood had splattered the walls, she had screamed.

A sigh ran through Issari as she
stood here now, gazing upon the hive of devilry and ruin. She raised
her hand and gazed at her amulet. When she'd pressed it against
Angel, it had embedded itself into Issari's palm. Her flesh had
healed around the silver sigil—a slender man within a circle. She
had tried to pull the talisman free but could not. It was a part of
her now—as much as her heart. The silver gleamed softly, crackling
to life as a demon fluttered by the balcony. She closed her fingers
around the amulet, and its glow faded.

"Forever I will be a bane
of demons," she whispered, though she did not know how one woman
could fight so many. Even three dragons, blowing fire, had been
unable to defeat Angel. How could she stop this? How could she save
her kingdom?

She closed her eyes, trying to
remember flying upon Tanin, the red dragon from the north. Like she
did so many times, Issari again wished she too could shift. If she
could become a dragon, she could fly north. To Requiem. She could
join Laira, Sena, and the others. Her eyes stung, and Issari felt
like she were the cursed one—lacking magic, plain, weak.

Do
you like me like this, Taal?
she thought.
Pure?

She raised her head. Night was
falling and the first stars emerged. The new constellation shone,
shaped like a dragon. And for the first time in her life, Issari
prayed to new gods.

"Please, stars of Requiem,
if you can hear me, bless me with your magic. Let me rise as a
dragon. Let me fly. Let me be strong."

She closed her eyes, took a deep
breath, and tried to shift. She imagined herself as a dragon—beating
wings, roaring fire. Yet nothing happened. When she opened her eyes,
she was a girl again, only a slim thing in a white gown, her dark
braid hanging across her shoulder.

She left the balcony and walked
through the palace, heading down stairways and corridors. When Mother
and Laira had fled, Issari had been only a babe, but she knew the
stories. To this day, guards whispered how Raem—then only a
prince—had found his wife and child shifting into dragons in the
palace cistern. Since then, few had dared enter that dark, wet place,
perhaps fearing that the miasma of reptilian disease still lingered
there. But this evening, Issari needed to see that place—to think of
her family, to imagine dragons.

She walked down a craggy tunnel
and stairs, plunging into underground depths, until she emerged into
the cistern.

It was a towering cavern, as
large as the throne room above. Columns supported a rough, vaulted
ceiling. Water rose taller than a man here, still and silent. A cold
place, wet, secret, and dark.

Slowly, Issari began to walk
down a flight of stairs toward the water. When she saw the shadow
ahead, she gasped and froze.

Merciful
Taal . . .

Ahead of her, half-submerged in
the water, was a dragon.

Instinctively, Issari reached to
her belt and clutched the hilt of her dagger.

She did not know this dragon.
The beast was black and burly, his horns long. He had not seen her,
and Issari quickly hid behind a column and peeked. The dragon stood
still in the water; the only movement was the smoke pluming from his
nostrils. Finally, with a grunt and shake of his head, the dragon
began to shrink. His wings pulled into his back, his scales faded,
and a man floated in the water, bald and shirtless.

Issari slapped her palm over her
mouth to stifle her gasp.

It was her father.

Slowly, dripping water, King
Raem stepped out from the pool. Issari pulled her head back, pressing
herself against the column. If he saw her here, he would not merely
beat her again; he would drown her in this pool. She crept deeper
into shadows, waiting for Raem to climb the stairs and leave the
cistern.

But
she did not see him leave. For a long moment, she saw and heard
nothing. Then a loud
crack
pierced the silence, followed by a grunt. A second
crack
followed.

Issari dared to peek around the
column. Her father was kneeling by the pool, chastising himself with
a belt. Welts rose across his back, much like the ones he had given
her.

"Diseased," the king
hissed. "Cursed. Shameful." With every word, his belt
lashed again.

Issari stared in disbelief.

Her father. The man who had
banished his daughter and imprisoned his son. The man who had
murdered scores in the city, those he called weredragons. The man who
had released an army of demons to purify his kingdom with blood and
rot.

Her father . . . was Vir Requis.

Issari's eyes stung.

All
those you killed,
she thought, trembling.
All
that you destroyed. All this pain, all this terror . . . because you
are ashamed. Because you are one of them.

Her amulet blazed in her hand;
it felt like holding an ember. Issari took ragged breaths and raised
her chin. She knew then. She knew what she could do, what she had to
do. She knew that only she, here in this place, could save Eteer,
could save Requiem, could return light to the darkness.

She drew her dagger.

Leaving her hiding place, she
walked toward her father, daring not breathe.

He did not see her. He was still
kneeling by the pool, chastising himself. Blood dripped down his
back.

It
will be just one more wound,
Issari thought, staring at his blood.
Just
one thrust of the blade.

Her dagger shook and her heart
thrashed, but Issari knew she had to do this. She would sin. She
would murder again—like she had murdered the crone. She would save
the world.

She reached her father—the man
who had beaten her, tortured her siblings, the man who had to
die—and raised her dagger.

With a sob, she thrust the
blade.

Raem spun around.

The king gasped and raised his
arms, protecting himself. The dagger sliced into his forearm, ripping
flesh open. The blade scraped against bone.

Issari screamed.

Raem reached out, grabbed her
wrist, and twisted. The blade clanged to the ground. A second later,
the king's fist drove into Issari's chest.

She fell back, unable to
breathe. She tried to suck in breath; horror engulfed her when she
realized she could not. The pain bloomed through her.