Requiem's Song (Book 1) (13 page)

Finally his wordless cry morphed
into words. "No! I forbid it. You will stay here in this canyon,
in safety, with me."

Maev tilted her head and
narrowed her eyes. She placed her fists on her hips and snorted,
blowing back a strand of her long, dark blond hair.

"You cannot stop me. I am
twenty-three years old, Grizzly. When you were my age, you were
already a father." She gestured at the canyon around her. Vines
and moss covered the craggy walls, and boulders lay piled up around
her. "I'm a Vir Requis. I can shift into a dragon. I'm not meant
to hide among stone." Her eyes gleamed and she hopped to another
boulder, moving closer to him. "Grizzly, there is another. I
know it. Let me find him."

Jeid sighed.

She
looks like her mother, but she is stubborn like me.

Jeid—tall, burly, and
shaggy—sported a mane of wild brown hair, a bushy beard, and brown
eyes that stared from under tufted brows. Clad in furs, he looked
like something of a bear, earning him his nickname; even his own
children now used the moniker.

Maev looked like her late
mother. Her hair was golden, her eyes gray tinged with blue, her skin
pale. But Jeid saw himself in her too—the stubborn gaze, the strong
arms, the way she raised her chin, stuck out her bottom lip, and
dared anyone to challenge her. He had given her those.

I
never wanted this life for you, Maev,
he thought. He had imagined her growing up a fair woman, perhaps a
gatherer of berries or a weaver of cloth. Instead she had become a
fighter, traveling from town to town to punch and kick and bite for
prizes. Today a black eye marred her countenance, and her lip was
still swollen, the remnants of the fights he forbade and she kept
getting into. Like him, she obeyed no rules, respected no leaders,
and valued stubbornness over prudence.

If
she insisted on having a nap in a meadow,
Jeid thought,
an
approaching stampede of mammoths would not convince her to move.

"The Prince of Eteer, a
dragon?" Jeid said, waving a hand dismissively. "It's only
a legend, daughter. The kingdom of Eteer itself is probably only a
legend. A town the size of a forest? Houses built of stone and armies
of thousands, each man bearing bronze? Towers taller than totem
poles?" He hefted the shield that hung across his back. "No
such place exists. These are only stories told around campfires."

Maev growled and bared her
teeth. She leaped onto another boulder; she now stood only a foot
away from the rock he stood on. She gave his chest a shove so hard
Jeid nearly toppled over.

"A legend!" Her eyes
flashed. "You know what else some claim is a legend? Dragons.
And look."

With a roar, she leaped into the
air and shifted.

Green scales rose across her.
Her tail flailed. She flapped her wings, bending the trees that clung
to the canyon walls. Rocks rolled and rearranged themselves, and even
a boulder creaked upon the jutting stone pillar it perched upon. Maev
ascended, rising above the canyon walls until she flew in open sky.
She blasted out fire, a pillar of heat and light that filled the sky
and rained down sparks.

"Maev, you fool!"

With his own roar, Jeid shifted
too, becoming a burly copper dragon. He beat his wings, rose to the
top of the canyon, and grabbed Maev's tail. He tugged her down into
safety like a man pulling down a flapping bird. Their wings slapped
against the canyon walls. Maev was a strong, slim dragon, fast as
wildfire, but Jeid was twice her size, a massive beast of horns like
spears, claws like swords, and scales like shields. When he pulled
her back to the canyon floor, they shifted back into human forms. She
stood before him, clad in fur and leather again. She panted, her
cheeks flushed.

"Did you see the legend?"
She spat. "Dragons are real. I'm real. You're real. Our family
is real. And there are others. In the villages and tribes they speak
of it—the kingdom of Eteer. Young Prince Sena is held captive by his
cruel father, a father almost as cruel as you. He's locked in a
tower, Grizzly! Not even a canyon where you can see the sky, but a
tiny cell, chained so he can't shift." She raised her chin. "I
have to save him. I have to believe there are others, not just our
family. I have to fly south and save him." Her voice softened
and she sighed. "You must learn to—just sometimes—let me go."

But he could not let her go. He
had lost one daughter already. He had lost his sweet Requiem. How
could he lose Maev too?

He pulled her into his arms.
Maev was a tall woman, taller than many men, and yet Jeid towered
above her; she nearly disappeared into his embrace. She laid her head
against his shoulder, and her tears dampened his fur tunic.

"My daughter," he
said, voice choked. "I already lost your mother to the arrows of
those who hate us. I already lost your sister to their poison. I
cannot bear to lose you too. What if you fly into a trap, like . . .
like the trap that killed Requiem? Like the trap that almost killed
me?"

"No trap can stop me."
She touched his beard, and her eyes softened. "Grizzly, I am
strong, fast, a warrior. You will not lose me. I will free the
prince, and I will bring him back here. You've always dreamed of
finding others, of building a new tribe here, a tribe of Vir Requis.
And yet we've found no others. Let me find one. Let me prove to you
that we are not alone."

A loud voice, speaking in
falsetto, came from above them. "Oh Grizzly! I am a heroine from
a tale. I rescue princes from towers, inspire bards with my bravery,
and slay ogres with my bad breath."

Jeid looked up and sighed again.
Upon the canyon's edge, looking down upon them, stood his son.

Two years older than his sister,
Tanin sported a head of shaggy brown hair, and stubble covered his
cheeks. While his father was beefy, Tanin was slender and quick. He
wore leather breeches and a fur tunic, and he carried a bronze
apa
sword at his belt, the leaf-shaped blade as long as his thigh. A bow
and quiver hung across his back, and a mocking smile tugged at his
lips. A prankster, his only joy seemed to be tormenting his younger
sister—stuffing frogs into her blankets, painting her face while she
slept, and once even slicing off a strand of her hair, which Maev had
avenged by giving him a fat lip.

Maev spun around and glared up
at him. "I do not sound like that."

Tanin smirked and gave a little
pirouette, balancing on the edge of the canyon. He kept speaking in
falsetto. "I'm so lonely here, Grizzly, and I'm as homely as the
south side of a northbound mule. The only way I'll ever find a mate
is to travel to the edge of the world—where they haven't heard of my
foul temper—and snatch one up—"

"Tanin!" Smoke looked
ready to plume from Maev's ears. She leaped, shifted again, and flew
up toward her brother. She landed atop the canyon, shifted back into
human form, and barreled into him, knocking him down.

Jeid grunted and flew after
them. When he reached the canyon's edge, he resumed human form and
stomped toward the wrestling siblings. Birches, oaks, and elms grew
around them, hiding them from any rocs that might dare fly above. The
escarpment sloped down to the south, leading to forested hills,
valleys, and finally the river where they fished for bass and trout.
Beyond that river lay the towns and villages of those who hunted
them—a forbidden realm.

"Enough!" Jeid
bellowed. He grabbed each of his children by the collar and lifted
them up. They dangled in his grip, still trying to punch one another.
"Stop your bickering, children, or I'll bang your heads together
like melons."

"Ow!" said Tanin,
struggling in his father's grip. "What did I do?" The young
man was twenty-five and tall and strong, yet in his father's grip he
seemed like a bear cub.

"You will stop tormenting
your sister!" Jeid said. "And you will sway her away from
this nonsense."

He tossed both his children down
in disgust. They fell into a pile of fallen leaves, rose to their
feet, and brushed their woolen clothes and fur cloaks.

"Well . . ." Tanin
stared at his feet and kicked around a pine cone. "I sort of . .
. agreed to go with her."

Jeid's eyes widened. "You
what?" he bellowed. "I expect some nonsense from Maev."
He ignored her protests. "But you, Tanin? I thought you were
better than this."

Tanin finally dared raise his
eyes. "You taught me to be a smith, Grizzly. You taught me to
forge copper, tin, and bronze." He gestured at the wide, bronze
sword that hung on his hip. "And then you shifted into a dragon.
You let the town see you. And we had to flee here. Now I roam around
from town to town, juggling raven skulls and dancing like a trained
bear—a blind, clumsy bear with gammy legs." Tanin sighed, took
his bronzed raven skulls out of his pockets, and tossed them as far
as they'd go. "You spoke of creating a tribe—a tribe of
weredragons, a tribe called Requiem after my sister. You even gave us
a fancy name—Vir Requis." Tanin gestured around him. "Well,
I don't see a tribe. I see a gruff, hairy grizzly bear . . . and I
see my father." He winked at Maev.

With a growl, Maev leaped onto
her brother again, wrestling him down and punching. This time Jeid
did not try to stop them. He clenched his fists, lowered his head,
and the pain cut through him.

"You're right," he
said, his voice so soft he barely heard himself.

The siblings, however, paused
from wrestling. They stared up at him, eyes wide.

Pain clutched at Jeid's chest to
remember that day, that horrible day Zerra, his own twin, had seen
him shift into a dragon. Zerra had shouted the news across their town
of Oldforge, raging that his brother was diseased. Jeid had fled into
the wilderness that day. Zerra had left Oldforge too—he joined a
roaming tribe of roc riders and dedicated himself to hunting
weredragons.

To
hunting me,
Jeid
thought.

"You're right," he
repeated, voice soft. "This is my fault. I'm the one who was
caught. I'm the one who doomed us to banishment. I'm the reason you
live in a canyon, that you roam from town to town for food and
supplies, when you should be smiths in Oldforge, a true roof over
your head, starting your own families." His voice choked. "I
failed you. I know this, and it hurts me every day, and—"

"Grizzly!" Maev said.
She leaped to her feet and embraced him. Tanin joined her a moment
later, awkwardly placing an arm around them.

"But I ask you, my
children." Jeid's eyes burned. "I ask you to stay. Stay
with me."

Tears streamed down Maev's
cheeks. She hugged him tightly . . . but then she stepped away.

"I cannot," she
whispered. "I must find others. I must. If we're banished, let
us build this new tribe." She leaped into the air and shifted.
Her wings scattered dry leaves and bent saplings. She took flight
with clattering scales, crashed through the canopy, and hovered
above. "Goodbye, Father! Goodbye!"

With that, she spun and flew
southward, leaving only a wake of smoke.

Tanin stood before his father,
arms hanging at his sides, his cheeks flushed. He cleared his throat
and clasped Jeid's shoulder.

"I'll look after her,"
he said, voice hoarse. "I won't torment her much. I—"

His voice choked and he seemed
ready to shed tears. With a silent nod, the young man shifted too. He
rose into the air, a red dragon, and flew off, calling his sister's
name.

Jeid grunted and was about to
shift too, to fly after them and drag them home, when he felt a hand
on his shoulder.

"Let them go, my son."
The voice was deep and soft, a voice like waves on sand, like water
in the deep. "Let them be."

Jeid spun around, fists
clenched, to see his own father.

At seventy years of age, Eranor
still stood straight, his shoulders squared. His long white hair and
beard flowed down to his waist. His glittering blue eyes stared from
under bushy, snowy eyebrows. He still wore his old druid robes, blue
wool hemmed in silver, and he bore a staff made from a twisting oak
root. Upon its top, clutched within wooden fingers, shone a blue
crystal the size of a heart. Eranor, once a healer and sage in their
town, had been banished with the rest of his family—the first among
them to find the magic, to shift into a dragon . . . and to call it a
gift.

"They—" For a moment,
Jeid chocked on his words. "Those scoundrels are—"

"I know." Eranor
smiled sadly and patted his son's shoulder. "They spoke to me of
leaving. I gave them my blessing."

"You
what
?
Father! How could you do this?" Jeid felt his face flush. He
swung his axe through the air, bellowed wordlessly, and kicked leaves
and rocks. "I will kill them. Why would they not come to me
first, why—"

"Because they're frightened
of you." Eranor swung his staff, knocking down the axe. "They
don't call you Grizzly only because of your shaggy hair and beard.
You terrify the poor things."

"Those poor things
should
be terrified. I'm flying after them now, and when I catch them, I—"

"Jeid, come with me."
Eranor clasped his son's arm, holding him in place. "Come to the
watchtower."

Jeid tossed down his axe with a
grunt; it vanished into the fallen leaves. Huffing, he followed his
father. They tramped between the trees, approaching the pillar of
stone. It rose narrow and tall, a shard like a tower, a remnant of
the ancient calamity that had fallen upon this land. Countless years
ago, the druids said, half the world plunged down like a sinking loaf
of bread, creating the escarpment—a great shelf of stone that ran
into the horizon. When the land had collapsed, boulders fell, the
canyon gaped open, and the watchtower rose from the earth like a
blade. Jeid and his father climbed the stone pillar now. The top was
barely wide enough for two; they stood pressed together.