A Night of Dragon Wings (7 page)

He watched as they made love.  He watched as they fell asleep.  He then turned, left the cave, and swallowed a lump in his throat.  His eyes stung and his fists shook.

No,
he told himself. 
No.  You cried too many times as a youth.  You watched your father, bent and old, die of his work, and you cried.  You watched Lyana marry the cruel prince, and you cried.  No more tears.  No more pain.  You will never weep again, Nemes.

"But you will weep, Requiem," he whispered in the night.  The rain lashed his face.  "You will."

Wreathed in his lord's shadows, he shifted.  He took flight as a gray dragon, his snout long and thin and sniffing, his claws pale like shattered femurs.  He rose between the trees, silent as a spirit rising to the afterlife, and pumped his wings.  The rain whipped him, and he flew through the night, breath pluming before him.

He flew south.

He flew to
them
.

Before him in the clouds, he could see the smoke again.  In the trees below, he could imagine the fallen columns of Requiem.  He remembered standing outside the city, watching the Tirans invade, attack, destroy.  They were a tall people, strong and noble.  In the eyes of Vir Requis, Nemes always saw pity—pity like that which Lyana showed him.  He saw haughtiness—like in the eyes of the princes when they gave him his commands.  He saw tears—tears like those that had filled his own eyes in his youth.  But none of those had filled the Tiran eyes.  In
their
eyes nothing shone but cruel strength.

"Requiem is weak," Nemes hissed as he flew, smoke rising between his teeth.  "But Tiranor is strong, and I am strong, and she is the greatest among them."

Queen Solina!  He had stood in the tunnels, watching as she sliced children apart, as she gutted them and spilled their precious organs upon the floor.  Their blood had splashed her, and she had licked it from her blades, and Nemes knew then, knew he had been a fool to ever worship the princes, to ever crave power in Requiem.  Watching her lick the blood, he knew:  Solina was the only mortal worthy of worship, the only leader of strength in this world.

"I will find you, Solina," he spoke into the night.  The rain swayed and he flew until the forest vanished below him.  The southern horizon stretched dark and endless ahead.  "I will find you, Solina, and I will give you King Elethor, and I will give you his people, and I will take Lyana for my own.  Together we will free Lord Legion.  Together we will rise."

He blew fire.  He roared.  He licked his chops and snarled and dreamed of Lyana's pulsing heart in his hand.

 
 
MORI

She sat on the sticky floor, lowered her head to her knees, and whispered soft prayers.

"As the leaves fall upon our marble tiles, as the breeze rustles the birches beyond our columns, as the sun gilds the mountains above our halls—know, young child of the woods, you are home, you are home."  Her voice trembled.  "Requiem!  May our wings forever find your sky."

Chains bound her arms to the wall.  More chains wrapped around her ankles, pinning her legs to the floor.  For the first week here, they had chained her standing; now at least they loosened the chains enough for her to sit, but her limbs still ached, and whenever she leaned backward, her lashed back blazed.  Three moons had passed, and they had whipped her three times in the Square of the Sun, beating her bloody and then returning her here, to darkness, to languish and shiver and weep and pray.

And Mori prayed.  She prayed to her stars.  She prayed to King's Column, which she dreamed of, a pillar of marble and light rising from ruin.  She prayed to the spirits of her parents, her fallen brother Orin, and all those who had died around her in Nova Vita.

"Look after me, dragons of starlight," she whispered through cracked lips.  Her voice was weak and hoarse, the voice of a ghost.  "I will soon fly by your side."

Her head spun, and she felt unconsciousness clutching at her.  She had fainted so many times here in darkness as hunger twisted her belly, as blood seeped down her back to trickle around her feet.  In her long dark dreams, she kept seeing it again and again:  Solina slicing her brother open, Solina slaying children underground, Solina toppling the city Mori had loved.  And she dreamed of Bayrin: her sweet, strong Bayrin, the love of her life, flying bloodied and scarred in battle, surrounded by wyverns.

Do you still live, Bayrin?  Do you dream of me too?

Worse than the hunger, worse than the whips, worse than the darkness, was Mori's worry for them.  Did Elethor still fly?  What of her friends Lyana and Treale and all the others?  Did any Vir Requis still live, or was she the last, a lingering relic of Requiem's glory, a princess shriveled into an emaciated wretch?

She swallowed a lump in her throat, twisted her fingers, and struggled to stay conscious.  Keeping her eyes open was so hard here in the dark.  They gave her no light in this chamber of craggy bricks, rusted iron, and blood.  Torches flickered outside the door; what red light seeped around the doorframe was all she had.  It was enough for her to witness her decay.  Her knees were knobby now, and her thighs, which she had once thought far too rounded for Bayrin to like, now seemed skeletal to her.  She wore only a tattered rag, and through it she could see her bones thrusting against her skin.

How many days had passed since they'd last whipped her?  Mori did not know.  Three?  Ten?  Days and nights lost all meaning here in the dark.  Sometimes it seemed hours between the meals they fed her—cold gruel thrust roughly into her mouth with a splintered spoon.  Sometimes it seemed days went by without food, and her head swam and her belly clenched before more gruel arrived.  When the moon ended, they would drag her out again, and the sunlight would burn and blind her, and the whips would tear her skin.

Footsteps thumped outside the door.  Shadows stirred.  Keys rattled in the lock, and when the door creaked open, torchlight flared.  Mori whimpered and looked away, the light blinding her.  How long had she sat here in darkness, alone?  It felt like ages.

"Meal time," rumbled her jailor.  "You no spit up this time, lizard whore, or Sharik cram it back into your mouth."

Mori blinked, raised her head, and winced in the torchlight.  Sharik, the brutish jailor, stood above her.  He looked more troll than man, wide and pasty and lumpy like a bag of spoiled milk.  He wore but a canvas tunic, barely better than her own rags, and carried a ring of keys on his belt.  He held a club in one hand, a wooden bowl in the other.

Mori did not want to eat.  The gray slop he fed her, full of lumps and hairs, left her stomach churning and her limbs shaking.

"I'm… I'm not hungry," she whispered.

Sharik grumbled and raised his club.  "Club or spoon.  Your choice, weredragon."

He slammed down that club now, rapping her hard on the shoulder.  Mori winced, pain pounding through her.  Sharik knelt, dug his spoon into the gruel, and held it out.  The slop trembled, gelatinous and sludgy.  Sharik glared at her above the bowl.  His eyes were beady and red, moles covered his face, and stench wafted between his rotting teeth.  Hairs filled his red, veined nose.

"I—" Mori began.

With a grumble, Sharik dropped his club and grabbed her jaw.  His fingers, fat and pale as raw sausages, dug into her, forcing her mouth open.  She gasped and sputtered.  He shoved the bowl forward, slamming its edge against her teeth, and tilted it.  The gruel began spilling into her mouth, and Mori coughed and sputtered.

"No spilling!" Sharik grumbled.  "For every drop you spill, Sharik break one of your fingers."

Mori could barely swallow fast enough.  The slime rolled down her throat, and she coughed but forced herself to keep swallowing.  His fingers dug into her jaw so painfully, she thought he would snap it off.  Her throat kept working.  She spat out a bit, whimpering.  Sharik growled and she kept swallowing, letting the sludge keep pouring.  She could barely breathe and her belly roiled.

Finally the bowl was empty.  Sharik pulled it back and Mori swallowed, gasped, and coughed.  Her limbs, still chained to floor and wall, trembled.

"Hope you enjoyed meal," Sharik rumbled and smirked.  "Sharik cook.  Special recipe."

He chuckled, a deep sound, then slapped her face.  Pain flared, and Mori felt her lip split.  She tasted blood.

"Next time you eat silent," Sharik said and growled.  "No more coughing.  No more choking.  Or Sharik hurt you more.  Sharik cut your fingers and feed you them."

With that, he left the chamber and slammed the door behind him.  Mori heard the keys jangle in the lock, Sharik chuckle, and his boots thump away.

For long moments, she could think of nothing but breathing; every breath that entered and left her lungs was a struggle.  Her belly ached and her limbs would not stop shaking.  But whatever foul concoction he fed her, it had kept her alive thus far; Mori tried to draw comfort from that.

Food gives me strength.  Strength will let me escape.  Strength will let me kill him.

Her hands were too weak to form fists, but she curled her fingers as far as they'd go.

"I will escape," she whispered.  "I will kill him.  I will find Solina and I will kill her too."

She kept inhaling deeply, struggling to calm the shaking of her limbs.  She breathed in and out, focusing on the flow of air—rancid as it was—into her lungs, into her fingertips, into every part of her.  She thought of the leaves on the birch trees back home.  She thought of her friends and family.  She thought of harps playing in Requiem's marble temples and of her stars.  She nodded.

"All right, Mori," she whispered to herself.  "It's time to try again."

Pain flared in her belly and spun her head.  Every time she tried to shift in these chains, she ended up weaker, her wrists and ankles bleeding.  She had come to dread these attempts, but she tightened her lips, inhaled sharply, and nodded again.

I must keep trying.  I must.  If I give up hope, I can only wait to die.  Even if escape is impossible, even if my magic will forever fail me, I will keep trying.  I will keep hope alive.  Even a fool's hope is better than no hope at all.

With a deep breath, she summoned her magic.

It rose tingling inside her, bright as starlight, warm as mulled wine.  She let it flow through her chest, into her limbs, and into her head, smooth and soothing like her breathing.

Help me, stars of Requiem.  Light my way here in darkness.

Wings began to sprout from her back; she felt them scrape against the walls.  Her fingernails began growing into claws.  Her teeth began lengthening into fangs.  Across her frail legs, golden scales began to appear.

I will find your sky, Requiem!  Help me fly.

Her body began to balloon, and a tail began to grow beneath her, and Mori could taste the sky and starlight, and—

As her limbs grew, the chains dug into her flesh.  Pain burst.  Her magic began to fizzle.

No.  No!  Clutch it.  Shift!  Break the chains!

She clenched her jaw, growled, and clutched her magic, tried to keep shifting, to keep growing, to—

A yelp fled her throat.

Her limbs grew too fast.  The chains tore into her.  Blood dripped, and her magic vanished like birds fleeing a disturbed tree.

Her scales disappeared, her claws and fangs retracted, and Mori lowered her head.  She sat shaking, and blood dripped from where the chains had bitten into her.  She shivered for long moments, head spinning.

Try again.  Shift!  You can break the chains, you…

Yet the darkness clutched at her.  She was too weak, too hurt.  Too much blood had spilled.  Her forehead hit her knees and Mori gagged, losing the gruel the jailor had fed her.  She could not stop trembling, and she could barely breathe.

I'm sorry, Requiem.  I'm sorry, stars.

She closed her eyes, wept quietly, and let the long, dark night draw her into its embrace.

 
 
SOLINA

The palace doors opened, and her guards dragged in a lanky man robed in muddy black.  A hood covered his face; Solina could see only strands of dangling white hair.  Sitting upon her ivory throne, she narrowed her eyes and watched as her guards, tall men bedecked in steel, shoved the man down upon the floor of her hall.

"My queen!" said a guard.  His voice echoed behind his falcon visor.  "We found this one skulking outside the palace, muttering strange spells.  He claims he's a weredragon."

Fifty guards, ten generals of her army, and three Sun God priests filled her throne room.  They all sucked in their breath.  Solina leaned forward in her ivory throne.  The fallen man coughed; the sound echoed in her silent hall.

"Stand up!" she barked.  She rose from her throne, her jewels jingling, and walked down the stairs of her dais.  Her sandals clacked against the gold and white tiles of her hall.  Granite columns rose around her, the stone a mosaic of reds and blacks and whites, their capitals coated in platinum.

"My Queen Solina!" said the robed man.

He pushed himself to his feet.  His hood had fallen back, revealing a smooth face that belied his long white hair; that face looked no older than her own.  His eyes were shrewd, his nose thin, his mouth a red line across his pale skin.  His hands, which peeked from his robes, were long and skeletal; in one, he clutched a staff.

A guard kicked the man's leg behind his knee, forcing him to kneel.

"Kneel before Queen Solina, scum!" the guard said.

The other guards goaded the man with spears.  Another kick sent him facedown upon the tiles, and a boot pressed against his nape.  The man coughed and hissed but did not struggle to rise.

"My queen!" he said, voice serpentine.  "I only seek to serve you.  I come from Requiem, I—"

Solina waved her guards back and glared down at the weredragon.  Her chest rose and fell.  She knew this one.  She had seen him during her captivity in Requiem.  He had been but a youth then, a scrawny boy who always seemed too pale, the son of the palace servants.  Twice she had caught him peeking through a keyhole, watching her bathe.