A Night of Dragon Wings (14 page)

"Will these chains be a part of me?" she whispered.

With silver light, Gloriae returned to human form.  Softly the queen embraced Mori; her armor was cold, but her hair and arms were warm.

"We are part of you," Gloriae whispered into her ear.  "We are with you.  Always, daughter of Requiem.  We fly with you even in your darkest hours.  Surrender to the shackles.  Let these chains become like arms of steel.  They imprison you.  They will let you fly."

The queen kissed Mori's forehead, lips warm and soft, and white light flowed, and for a moment Mori saw nothing but the glow of stars.

When the light cleared, she saw the dungeon again: the bloody floor, the brick walls, and the door before her.  Once more she sat here in shadow, her arms shackled to the wall behind her, her ankles chained to the floor.

"Was it a dream?" she whispered, throat dry and voice raspy.  Had she truly seen the spirit of Queen Gloriae and the great Kyrie Eleison and Agnus Dei?  Had she seen a light from the starlit halls or a light from the past?

Mori lowered her head; it felt too heavy to hold up.  Her stomach clenched, her back blazed with pain, and her eyes stung.  She missed that hall of marble.  She missed those birches.  All lay burnt now, all was fallen.

We are with you,
their voices whispered in the darkness, and Mori thought she could feel the warmth of starlight. 
Always, daughter of Requiem.  We fly with you even in your darkest hours.

Mori closed her eyes, tightened her lips, and tried to shift.

Pain racked her body.  She trembled.  Golden scales began to appear across her.  Her limbs began to grow, and claws sprouted from her fingers.  Wings unfurled from her back.  She could almost imagine the sky of Requiem, all blue and white and cold around her.

The chains bit deep, shoving Mori back into human form.

She sat trembling, head lowered, and coughed and blinked and gasped for breath.  She could not stop shaking, and she tasted blood on her lips.  Her eyes stung.

"I can't do it," she whispered.  "I'm sorry, Gloriae.  I want to fly with you.  I want to go home."

She shook for long moments, ravaged with pain and weakness.  Her skin felt hot; perhaps she was feverish.  She closed her eyes and tried to breathe like Mother Adia had taught her:  a slow breath in, a moment of healing, a slow breath out.  She breathed again and again, letting the air—even the fetid air of this dungeon—flow through her body, soothe her trembling, and ease her pain.  She imagined that she breathed the air over Requiem, the sky of her youth, a sky she vowed to find again.

She took one more great breath, filling her lungs, and tried to shift again.

She could see the sky.  Clouds trailed across blue fields.  Dragons flew there, hundreds of them—blue, green, gold, and a dozen other colors, all undulating on the wind, smoke trailing from their nostrils, wings gliding.  She felt her own wings move behind her, and she raised her head, ready to soar.

Once more, the chains bit, and her magic fizzled.

She sat chained and trembling.

She thought of her books from the library of Requiem—books of adventures about brave knights, beautiful maidens, and dragons who flew to distant lands of wonder.  She thought of her gowns, her harp, her dolls—the things she could always shift with, draw into herself, extensions of her body and soul.

She thought of these chains, things of cold metal, of pain. 
They imprison you.  They will let you fly.

How long had she lingered here in the dungeon, shackled, wasting away?  Several moons?  Several years?  These chains were parts of her now; she could barely remember a time without them.

They've become extensions of my arms.  They've become like steel wings.  They are part of me.

She tried to imagine that she'd been born shackled, that she would live and grow old and die in these chains.  They were as parts of her as her clothes, as her old books, as her very bones.

They are me.  They will shift into me, and I will take these irons into myself.

With a deep breath, she mustered her magic.

Wings thudded from her back.

Scales clanked across her.

With a pain like thrusting daggers, the chains flowed into her body.

Mori screamed.

The walls cracked.  Her body ballooned and her head hit the ceiling.  The chains snapped from the walls and molded into her, driving like steel demons as her magic spun.  Smoke filled her nostrils, and her tail flailed beneath her, and she was a dragon, a frail and thin golden dragon trapped in the cell, freed, unchained, fire in her maw.

Always, daughter of Requiem.  We fly with you even in your darkest hours.

Mori shook.  She clawed at the door, again and again, until the hinges tore.  She was weak, but her claws were still sharp, and the door splintered and tore apart.

Frail and wheezing, the golden dragon tumbled out from the chamber into a hallway.  Shouts echoed and boots thudded.  Mori could barely raise her head.  She looked up to see Sharik rushing her way, a club in his hand.

Always, daughter of Requiem.  We fly with you…

She tried to blow her fire; she could muster none.  She was so weak.  Only sparks left her maw.  Sharik reached her, and his club swung, and Mori raised her claws.  The jailor howled and Mori once more was flying over Nova Vita, wyverns all around her, as crossbows fired and spears dug into her flesh.

 
 
BAYRIN

Bayrin stood in the forest camp, stuffing his supplies into his pack, when Piri Healer marched up toward him, raised her chin, and announced:  "Bayrin, I'm flying with you to find the salvanae."

The camp bustled around them.  Over a thousand Vir Requis had been hiding here in Salvandos, several leagues west of the border with Requiem, since Nova Vita's fall.  The forest spread around them, leaves red and gold and crunching underfoot, giving way to a chalky mountain that rose like a wall.  Elders were tending to pots of simmering stew, children ran playing with wooden swords, and guards in muddy armor patrolled the palisade of sharpened spikes that surrounded the camp.

They had been living here for several moons now, and Bayrin had done his best to avoid Piri during this time.  Packing his things today, he had congratulated himself on avoiding her until his very last day here… and now as she stood before him, chin raised and arms crossed, he cursed under his breath.

"Piri," he said and glared, "I fly alone."

She glared back with those lavender eyes he used to marvel at, and which he now hated.  She was a tall woman, taller even than most men, and Bayrin had always felt uneasy around women this tall.  She wore the white robes of a healer, the hems muddy, and her dark hair fell across her shoulders in two braids.  When she scrunched her lips, Bayrin couldn't help but remember kissing those lips four years ago, and the memory sickened him.

"Bayrin Eleison!" she said and placed her hands on her hips.  "You know the old saying:  Those who fly alone die alone.  I'm not letting you fly alone to seek aid from the salvanae.  I'm going with you, like it or not."

Bayrin groaned so loudly he blew back a curl of his hair.  It had been
four
years
since he'd kissed her, and since then, it seemed Piri followed him everywhere.  Before the wars, she would sneak into Castra Murus, barracks of the City Guard, and try to slink into his bed at night.  Whenever he would pass her in Nova Vita, she would gaze at him lovingly, sending him fleeing.  Even here, in this camp, she had been giving him longing looks for moons now, and he had barely avoided her.

Looking at those flashing, lavender eyes, Bayrin sighed.  It was not that he hated Piri; truly, he did not.  But stars, why did she have to pursue him so urgently?

So I kissed her.  So what?
  They had rolled around in the hay a few years ago, and she had demanded marriage.  Not a week had gone by since their first kiss, and Piri had already planned what they'd name their children.  Bayrin had tried telling her he was too young for marriage—and certainly too young for children.  He had tried to avoid her since.  Yet year after year, she pursued him, tried to kiss him again, even tried to lie with him, and nothing could dissuade her.

"Piri," he said and frowned.  "No.  Just no.  I know why you want to fly with me, and it won't work."

It was her turn to snort.  She rolled her eyes.  "Bayrin, don't you get a big head.  Do you
truly
think I'm still infatuated with you?  I'm long over what happened between us; not every girl in camp loves you, Bayrin Eleison, despite what you might think."  She raised her nose at him.  "I want to fly with you because I know Salvandos.  I've visited Har Zahav before, the mountain where the salvanae live, to train as a healer.  You need me as your guide.  I've spoken to King Elethor about this, and he quite agrees.  Ask him if you like; he will command you fly with me."

Bayrin sighed.  He could just imagine Elethor's grin.  On many nights back in Nova Vita, Bayrin would complain about Piri's onslaught, and Elethor would howl with laughter.  Whenever Elethor—just a young prince then—would see Piri in the city streets, he would point her toward Bayrin and wink as the young woman began her pursuit.  One time, when Bayrin had been hiding in an alehouse, Elethor had smuggled Piri inside under his cloak, then laughed for days about the mugs Bayrin had broken trying to flee the place.

"Of course Elethor would say that," he muttered.

He grabbed his longsword and buckled it to his belt, careful avoid Piri's gaze.  As he was packing his pan, cutlery, and tinderbox, she kept standing with hands on hips, merely staring.  As he was counting his rations—strings of sausages, sacks of oats, and jars of preserves—she began tapping her foot.

"Are you quite ready, Bayrin Eleison, or are you going to wait until the nephilim kill us all?"

He groaned, slammed an apple into his pack, and sealed it shut.  He straightened, slung the pack over his back, and glared at her.

"I'm ready," he said.  "Are you ready?  To shut your mouth, that is?"

"Very clever, Bayrin."  She nodded at his sword.  "Why take a blade?  Surely you could slay an enemy without it; they'll groan to death at your jokes."

She hefted her own pack, which hung across her back.  Bayrin grumbled.  He couldn't help but notice how the pack's straps pulled her silk robes taut, exposing her curves, or how her lips twisted as she smiled.  A memory pounded through him:  Piri four years ago, sneaking into his chamber and doffing her cloak to stand nude before him.  They had made love three times that sweaty summer night.

With a grunt, Bayrin shoved the memory aside.

It's Mori I love,
he thought, and sadness flowed over his memories of Piri's kisses.  Mori—pure and beautiful, the love of his life. 
Stars, Mori, I won't forget you, not now, not ever.  I will find you, and when I do, I'll never let you go again.

Eyes stinging, he shifted into a green dragon.  He kicked off the earth, crashed through branches, and soared into the sky.  He began flying west and shouted over his shoulder.

"If you want to fly with me, Piri, you better fly fast.  I wait for no one."

The trees shook as she soared, a lavender dragon with silver horns.  Her body was long and slim, her scales were bright, and fire flicked between her teeth.  She flew like an arrow.  Bayrin cursed, turned his gaze back west, and flapped his wings mightily.

He'd always been a fast dragon—not as fast as Mori, perhaps, but close.  He flew now with every last bit of strength, determined to lose Piri over the wilderness.  The forests streamed below him, an endless sea of red and gold.  Mountain peaks rose ahead, white against the sky and cloaked in clouds.  Bayrin dived between them on the wind, the scents of autumn in his nostrils.  He flew toward a valley and streamed over a lake.  His reflection raced across the water; the reflection of a lavender dragon raced there too.

Bayrin looked over his shoulder to see Piri close behind.  Blasts of smoke rose from her nostrils.  She snarled at him and beat her wings mightily.

"Bloody stars!" he cursed, turned his head back west, and flew with new vigor.

For a healer, she's damn fast.

"You can't escape me, Bayrin!" she cried behind him.  "I'm just as fast."

She had the speed; Bayrin had to admit that.  But did she have the endurance?  He snarled and flew faster than he'd ever flown.  The lake ended and forests of oaks and maples rolled below him.  He flew until his wings ached, and his lungs felt ready to collapse, yet whenever he glanced over his shoulder, he saw Piri mere feet behind him.  She panted, and her eyes were narrowed to slits, but she kept flying.

How many leagues did he fly?  Bayrin couldn't tell; dozens perhaps.  His body ached.  He remembered flying across the northern sea with Mori, seeking the Crescent Isle, and the memory stung his eyes.

I wish you were flying here with me, Mori.  We will fly together again.  I promise you.

The sun began to set, and still the blasted lavender dragon flew behind him.  Bayrin wanted to keep flying, but smoke rose thickly from his maw, and he was weary, so weary he wanted nothing more than to crash down and fall asleep.

Bloody stars, I'll lose the damn girl tomorrow,
he thought and began to dive down.  He spotted a clearing between trees where grass grew along a stream.  He spiraled down, landed upon the grass, and shifted into human form.  It was cold—damn cold—but still sweat drenched him.  He knelt by the stream and drank deeply.

Piri landed by him, claws digging into the grass, and shifted too.  She panted, and sweat dampened her hair and robes.  She too approached the stream, knelt so close by him that their bodies touched, and also drank.  She glanced at him, mouth dripping, and flashed a grin.

"Good flight."  She reached up and tousled his hair.

He turned aside with a grunt, trudged away from the stream, and lay upon the grass.  He was too weary to eat supper, and besides, eating meant having to stay awake around Piri.  He turned his back toward her, placed his head upon his pack, and pulled his cloak over him as a blanket.  He paused long enough only to kick off his boots, then closed his eyes.