Requiem's Song (Book 1) (6 page)

She
trembled. "Please. Please . . . I need help. I am Ciana. Are you
the weredragon?"

He
straightened. "I am Vir Requis. That is our name." He took
a step closer, fists still clenched. "The kind you hunt."

Ciana
blinked away tears. "My . . . my brother is a were— a Vir
Requis. They're going to burn him. Please. Please. I came to you for
help. They have him tied to the stake. They say they'll burn him at
sundown." Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she reached out to
him. "I don't have the magic. I came to find you. If you can
become a dragon, if you are truly Jeid Blacksmith, Chieftain of
Dragons . . . help him. Save him."

Jeid
stared, frozen.

Another
Vir Requis.

His
heart throbbed and his legs felt weak.

For
years he had dreamed, prayed, flown across the world to find others.
For years, he had come to this grave, vowed to his daughter to build
a tribe in her name, a tribe of others like them—who could turn into
dragons, who were hunted, feared, poisoned, killed.

For
years, he had found no others.

"You
lie!" He stepped closer, teeth bared. He raised his fist as if
to strike her. "There are no others. There are no more Vir
Requis in this world. Just me. Just my family. Just us that you hunt
and kill."

Ciana
did not flinch. She met his gaze steadily, and some strength filled
her damp eyes.

"There
is another. But if you let him die, Jeid, your family will truly be
the last." Gingerly she reached out and touched his arm. "Come
with me. Save him. Please." Fire lit in her eyes. "Become
the dragon again. Grow your wings, sound your roar, and take flight."

Another
Vir Requis . . .

His
head spun. Could it be—another like him? Afraid? Alone?

He
growled.

He
stepped away from the girl.

And
so I fly again.

With
a deep breath, Jeid shifted.

Copper
scales rose across him, clattering like a suit of armor. Wings burst
out from his back with a thud. Fangs sprouted from his mouth and
claws grew from his fingers. He tossed back his head and roared, and
his fire blasted skyward in a pillar. Standing before him in the
grass—now so small next to his larger form—Ciana took a step back
and gasped.

Jeid
beat his wings, rising several feet aboveground. The blast of air
scattered leaves, bent the old oak's branches, and fluttered Ciana's
hair. Snorting smoke, Jeid reached out, lifted the woman in his
claws, and soared.

He
caught an air current and glided, wings wide. Since Requiem had died,
he had dared not fly in daylight. Too many still wished to fell
dragons from the sky. Warriors of the villages bore arrows coated
with poison. His twin, the cruel Zerra, now wandered the wilderness,
leading a pack of a hundred rocs, oversized vultures that feared the
escarpment but would gladly hunt a lone dragon in open sky. Yet now
Jeid flew in the sunlight, blowing his fire, roaring for the great
hope, the dream of Requiem, his most sacred prayer.

We
are not alone.

Behind
him rose the escarpment—the cliffs of stone and trees and hidden
caves, his fortress. The misty hills and valleys rolled below. Ahead
stretched the River Ranin, the border of his territory, and there
beyond, nestled along the bank, was his old home. The village of
Oldforge.

Fifty-odd
buildings rose along the riverbank. Most were simple huts of clay,
branches, and straw, humble homes with a hole in each roof to vent
the smoke of cooking fires. Vegetables grew in backyard gardens, and
pigs rooted in pens. Several boats floated upon the river, tethered
to posts.

The
largest building, and the only one built of stone, was the smithy. It
rose taller than two men, topped with a dome. Jeid's grandfather
himself had built this smithy. Once Jeid had forged tin and bronze
there, had raised his children there. Today those who had exiled him
lived within those walls.

The
villagers filled the pebbly village square, clad in fur, cotton, and
canvas. Mud coated them and their hair hung long and scraggly. A
great pyre rose among them, and upon it, tied to a stake, stood a
young man.

Another
Vir Requis.

Jeid
howled, filled his maw with flames, and dived toward the village.

The
villagers saw him, pointed, and shouted. They fled the square,
scattering into their homes, leaping behind barrels, and grabbing
what makeshift weapons they could—humble farm tools of bronze and
tin, many which Jeid himself had forged before his exile.

"Flee
and you will live!" Jeid bellowed, his voice louder than hammers
striking anvils, and the blast of his wings tore thatch off roofs and
knocked down fences. "Face me and burn."

He
blasted down flames.

The
fiery pillar slammed against the square, scattering sparks and
sending pebbles flying. A nearby tree caught fire. His wings pounding
like drums, Jeid—large as his old smithy, a burly beast of scales
like the metal he'd forge—landed before the pyre. He roared and
whipped his tail, and the last villagers scattered.

Tied
to the stake, the young man gazed at him, face sooty, eyes wide.

Another
Vir Requis,
Jeid
thought, eyes stinging. His breath shook.
We
are not alone.

"I
will free you," Jeid said, voice a low rumble. "There is a
safe place for you. A place for dragons. A tribe called Requiem."
His voice choked. "You have a home."

He
stretched out his claws, ready to severe the prisoner's ropes.

The
young man moved so quickly Jeid barely saw it. His expression
changing to hatred, the prisoner brought his hands forward, letting
his ropes fall. He held a bow and arrow.

Before
Jeid could retreat, the arrow flew.

The
bronze arrowhead drove into Jeid's neck.

The
dragon howled. He sucked in air, prepared to blow fire.

Around
the square, a dozen men leaped up from behind barrels, a well, and
bales of hay. They too held bows and arrows. They too fired.

The
projectiles slammed into Jeid. Some shattered against his scales.
Others pierced his soft underbelly.

The
pain drove through him, burning through his bloodstream. He felt
poison flow, dragging him down, pulling him into blackness. Ilbane
covered these arrowheads, the juice of crushed leaves grown in the
northern hills. Harmless to most, the sap was poisonous to dragons,
stiffening muscles, blazing through veins, turning bones heavy as
rocks. Jeid tried to beat his wings, but they wouldn't move. He tried
to blow fire, but only sparks left his mouth.

He
turned his head, lashing his claws, trying to cut the men. And there
he saw her—Ciana, the young woman who had found him on the hill. Her
tears were gone. She smiled crookedly and raised a bow.

Finally
Jeid recognized her.

You
were friends with my son.
He gazed at her with blurred eyes.
Years
ago. You were only a youth . . .

Her
arrow drove into Jeid's chest.

He
fell, cracking stones beneath him.

"Kill
the beast!" Ciana shouted, face twisted with rage. "Slay
him!"

Jeid's
eyelids fluttered. His wings beat uselessly against the ground,
unable to support his weight. The poison held him down like chains.

I
will fly to you now, Requiem,
he thought, seeing his daughter's face.
We
will fly together again.

Through
the mists of pain, he saw Ciana walk toward him, drawing back another
arrow, this one aimed at his eye. But then she faded, and he only saw
Requiem, his dear daughter, angelic and pure . . . writhing in pain.
Poisoned. Dying.

No.
I cannot die too.

His
eyes burned.

His
daughter laughed.

I
must live for you, Requiem—for Requiem, the daughter I lost; for
Requiem, the tribe I must build.

As
Ciana laughed, nocking another arrow, Jeid managed to lift his head.

He
blasted his fire.

The
flames roared across Ciana, crashed past her, and slammed into the
pyre where the false prisoner still stood. With a blast that pounded
in Jeid's ears, the pyre burst into flame. Men screamed and ran,
burning, living torches.

The
fire raced toward Jeid.

He
pushed himself up.

He
was weak, almost blind, maybe dying.

He
beat his wings.

He
rose a few feet, crashed back down, and rose again. More arrows
slammed into him. He howled, soared higher, and flew. His claws
banged against a house, knocking down the roof, and he crashed onto a
hilltop beyond. For a moment he rolled downhill, tearing up grass and
soil. With another flap of his wings, he was airborne again, flying
across the river.

They
screamed behind him. Arrows whistled around him, and one slammed
against his back.

He
kept flying, the land a haze of blue and green below, and Requiem
laughed, and the mist engulfed him, but still he flew.

For
you, my fallen daughter,
he thought.
For you,
Tanin and Maev, my living children. For you I still fly.

The
escarpment rose ahead from the mist, a great wall of stone draped
with vines and moss. Jeid dipped. He nearly crashed. He beat his
wings and rose higher, flying above the cliffs until he reached the
canyon upon their crest. It gaped open below, a hidden place, a safe
place, a home called Requiem.

He
crashed down.

He
fell into the canyon, slammed against boulders, and lay still. His
wings splayed out around him like the sails of beached boats.

"This
is why I must fly," he whispered. "They hunt us. They kill
us. Requiem must stand. We must find the sky."

Through
the haze, he saw them rush forth—his father, beard long and white,
and his living children, shouting in muffled voices, fading . . . all
fading into colors and shadows and light.

 
 
RAEM

My
son is cursed.
Raem
felt as if the world were crashing around him.
My
son, my heir, my pure prince . . . is a weredragon.

"Father,
please!" the boy said, reaching out to him. "I'm sorry.
I'll never shift again. I . . ."

Nineteen years old, Prince Sena
Seran had the noble looks of his family: raven hair, green eyes, a
proud jaw. Slim and tall, he wore a white robe hemmed in gold, and a
bronze dagger hung from his belt.

He
is beautiful,
Raem thought, frozen in place, torn between rage and anguish.
I
already lost a daughter, and now I lose a son.

Raem—taller, broader, stronger
than his son—stepped forth and swung his fist, driving it into
Sena's cheek.

The boy crumpled, falling to the
floor with a yelp and gush of blood.

"Father, please!"
cried Issari. "He didn't mean to do it. Please don't kill him."

Raem looked across the
curled-up, bleeding prince and stared at his youngest child, Princess
Issari. At only eighteen years of age, she was blooming into a
beautiful young woman. She was everything Laira, his eldest, should
have been—a proper princess. Her black hair hung across her shoulder
in a braid. Her green eyes filled with tears. A white gown covered
her slim body, and a headdress of golden olive leaves and topaz
gemstones glimmered upon her head.

"You are my only child now,
Issari," Raem said. "You are the only pure thing our family
has left."

Before she could react, Raem
knelt, grabbed his disgraced son, and pulled the prince to his feet.
He twisted the boy's arm behind his back and manhandled him out of
the room.

"Father!" Issari
cried, racing toward them. "Father, please. Please forgive him.
He'll never shift again."

All traces of sadness had left
Raem; rage now consumed him. Ignoring his daughter, he dragged his
son along a hallway. The boy's bleeding nose left a trail behind
them. Guards stood at attention between the hallway's columns, still
and stiff, faces hidden inside their helms.

"Do you know what you did,
my son?" Raem asked, voice shaking with his fury. "You spat
upon Taal, the god of purity. You are an abomination." He
twisted his son's arm so hard it nearly snapped. "You are
filth."

He dragged the boy out of the
palace. He shoved him into the courtyard, past the fig and palm
trees, and toward the spot where only that morning Raem had executed
a woman. Ignoring the prince's whimpers, Raem shoved the boy's neck
down onto the chopping block.

Sena tried to speak, to beg. The
boy looked over his shoulder, eyes full of tears, face covered in
blood.

"Father, I'm sorr—"

Raem struck him again, a blow
that bloodied Sena's mouth and chipped a tooth. The prince gurgled on
blood, hiding his face, and Raem kicked him in the ribs. He shoved
the boy's head down against the wood.

"You will not call me your
father." Raem drew his khopesh from his belt. "You are no
son of mine." He raised the semicircular blade, so enraged he
could barely breathe. "By the god Taal, I condemn you to—"

"Father, no!"

The cry rose behind him, and
Issari leaped onto his back. The princess clutched his arm, holding
back his sword. Her tears fell onto his shoulder.

"Please!" the princess
begged. "Send him into exile like Laira or imprison him in
Aerhein Tower. But please, Father, please . . . don't kill him. For
me."

Raem spun around, staring at the
princess. Her cheeks were flushed and wet with tears. She trembled,
clutching at him, whispering inaudible words. In a world of evil—his
father's treachery, his wife and eldest daughter's exile, and now his
son's abomination—Issari was a ray of piety. The young woman was a
single, pure light in a dark world. Raem felt some of his rage
dissipate.