Requiem's Song (Book 1) (14 page)

Here was the highest point of
the escarpment. Standing here, Jeid could see the land slope down
before him, finally reaching treed hills and valleys; beyond them
flowed the River Ranin. Upon the horizon, he could just make out
pillars of smoke—the cooking fires of Oldforge. To his right, a
waterfall crashed down the escarpment, feeding a stream.

Eranor gestured at the scenery.
The wind whipped his beard and fluttered his wide sleeves. "The
world."

"Yes, Father, I know what
the world is."

"But your children do not."
Eranor smiled sadly. "You have traveled far and wide and seen
many lands. They have never gone south of the River Ranin."

The old druid turned around and
pointed down. The canyon stretched beneath them, mossy boulders piled
up in its depths. Vines and roots covered its walls. Several caves
gaped open, leading to a network of tunnels and caverns.

"This canyon is a safe
place," Jeid said, his voice still gruff. "I built a new
home for us here. Even my brother fears this place. Here is our
fortress. Here we are safe behind walls of stone, safe to blow fire
from caves upon any roc that might attack."

He gestured around him. To a
random traveler, the canyon would seem like nothing but a natural
collapse of nature, a sculpture all of stone, wood, and moss. But
Jeid saw a fort. Pillars of stone thrust up—watchtowers. Caves lined
the canyon walls—secret holes for blasting flame. Boulders rose and
fell like walls, some balanced upon one another—traps to crush
invaders. In the wilderness, arrows could slay them. In the skies,
rocs could hunt them. Here was safety. Here was survival.

"Aye," said Eranor,
stroking his white beard. "It's a safe place for weary travelers
such as you and me. But for Tanin and Maev . . . they need to believe
there is more. They need to believe there is hope, that there are
others like us."

Jeid lowered his head. The wind
fluttered his hair around his face. He winced to remember flying back
to Oldforge only days ago—of Ciana betraying him, of the poisoned
arrows thrusting into him. His wounds still stung, but worse was the
pain inside him.

"
Are
there more, Father?" he said softly. "I told them that
other dragons fly. I told them we can build a tribe, a tribe called
Requiem. I told them tales to comfort them—when they were young,
afraid, banished. I told them that our family is not diseased, that
we carry a gift, that others in the world are like us." He
raised his eyes and stared at his father. "I told them the
stories you told me when I was young. But I lied. And you lied."

Eranor raised his eyebrows.
"Lied, did I? Look at your shield, Jeid. Look at the shield that
you yourself forged."

With a grunt, Jeid slung the
shield off his back. The bronze disk was inlaid with silver stars,
forming a dragon-shaped constellation. Those same stars shone in the
sky every night.

"Simple stars," Jeid
said. "A coincidence."

Eranor shook his head. "You
were born seeing those stars at night. But when I was young, the
Draco constellation did not shine." Eranor's eyes watered. "A
great gift has come to the world—the gift of magic, of dragons. I do
not believe that it blessed only our family. In villages and
wandering tribes, they speak of others—others who were hunted,
caught, killed. Zerra hunts them; so do other tribes. But some must
have escaped. Some must have survived. Your children need to believe
this . . . and so do I. Even their old grandfather, white-haired and
frail, must cling to some hope. Requiem might be a dream, but let us
live that dream."

Jeid slung the shield across his
back again. "You are many years away from being frail, Father.
And I wish I could believe too. But since . . . since they died . .
." His voice choked.

Eranor nodded and lowered his
head, and his white beard cascaded like a waterfall. "I miss
them too. As the stars blessed us with magic, so do they harbor the
souls of our departed. Your wife and daughter look down upon you. And
they are proud of you."

Another
story,
Jeid thought.
Another comforting
fairy tale.

He wanted to believe, wanted to
hope too, but Jeid could not. Hope led to despair.

He climbed down the pillar of
stone. He entered his small cave in the canyon. He opened his wooden
chest, pulled out Requiem's old coat, and held the soft cotton
against his cheek until darkness fell.

 
 
LAIRA

In
the cold autumn morning, fog cloaking the camp and crows peering from
naked trees, Laira stood tied to a stake, awaiting her death in fire.

The
Goldtusk tribe gathered around the pyre, watching her, five hundred
souls. They wore mammoth, wolf, and deer fur, and their strings of
bone and clay beads hung around their necks and arms. Mist floated
between them and their breath frosted. The tribe's totem pole rose
behind upon a hillock, the gilded mammoth tusk upon its crest all but
hidden in the fog. The rocs stood tethered to the pole, scratching
the earth and cawing, anxious for a meal; the birds had seen enough
burnings to know they would soon feast upon charred flesh.

Branches,
straw, and twigs rose in a pile beneath Laira's feet. She watched a
grub crawl down a birch branch, only for a robin to land, suck it up,
and fly off. Strangely, the sight almost comforted to her.

I
will burn. I will scream. I will rise to my mother. But the world
will go on. Birds will fly, grubs will die, the leaves will fall and
bud again. Maybe I'm as small and meaningless as that grub.

Zerra
came walking through the crowd, heading toward her, holding a torch.
A cruel smile twisted his features, lipless on the burnt half of his
face. His fur cloak billowed in the wind, revealing his bronze
sword—the most precious weapon in their tribe. When he reached her,
he held his torch close, and the heat and smoke stung Laira and
invaded her nostrils. She grimaced.

"Aye, you were a sweet one
in my bed." Drool dripped down his chin and he grabbed his
groin. "It's almost a shame to burn you. You were as hot and
smooth as your mother was. I claimed her too, did you know? Your
father abandoned her for me to take." He smirked. "Mother
and daughter—both mine to bed and burn."

Laira found rage filling her,
overflowing her moment of stoicism.

"You lie!" She spat on
his face. "My father is a great warrior-prince across the sea.
He is stronger than you, and his sword is wider and longer. My mother
was just as strong. She never submitted to you as I did. You will
forever bear the mark of her strength upon your ravaged face."

Slowly, he wiped the spit off.
His hand wet with her saliva, he struck her. The blow snapped Laira's
head to the side, rattling her teeth, searing her with white light.
The torch crackled only inches from her, only heartbeats away from
igniting the pyre.

"Half my body is burnt,"
Zerra said. "I think that, after I've burned all of yours, I
will pull you from the flames. I will keep you half-alive, writhing
and begging for death. I will heal you. For long moons, you will
scream in your tent, and we will apply ointments, bandages, prayers .
. . then burn you again, only to repeat the cycle. I wonder how many
burnings you will survive. I will try to make it many. You will end
up envying your mother."

Laira grimaced as the torch drew
nearer, singing her cheek, and her heart thrashed. She gritted her
teeth.

No.
I will not give up. I will fight even as the fire blazes.

She gave the ropes binding her a
mighty tug. But they only chafed her wrists, keeping her arms tied
behind her to the stake. She tried to kick, but the ropes dug into
her ankles, and blood trickled onto her bare feet.

"Yes, struggle for me."
Zerra leaned forward and licked her cheek. He brought the ravaged
half of his face near her eyes. "Look at my scars, child. Soon
all your body will look like this."

Laira sucked in breath, chest
shaking.

Use
your curse. Use your disease.
She ground her teeth.
Use
your magic.

She shut her eyes, trying to
ignore the pain, to focus, to calm herself and find that inner power.
At first it evaded her. The magic lurked deep inside, fleeing from
her mental grasp like a mouse fleeing from reaching hands.

Zerra stepped back and raised
his torch. "For the glory of Ka'altei!" he shouted. "We
will burn the reptile! Shaman of Goldtusk, will you bless my fire?"

Concentrate,
Laira. Grab your
magic.

Shedah, the crone, stepped
forward. Strings of human finger bones rattled, hanging around her
neck. Among them hung the silver amulet of Taal—the amulet of
Laira's fallen mother, now the crone's prize. The wizened old thing,
frail and covered in warts, raised her staff. The painted skull of an
ape grinned atop it.

"I name her a cursed
thing!" cried the shaman, voice shrill.

Laira reached down deep inside
her. She found that secret pool and fished out the warm strands.

The magic flowed through her.

Ahead, Shedah reached into her
leather pouch, pulled out blue powder, and tossed it onto Zerra's
torch. The powder ignited, spewing orange smoke, and Zerra raised
the flame high.

"The fire is blessed with
the seed of Ka'altei!" he announced. "The reptile will
forever blaze in his halls of retribution."

Scales flowed across Laira's
body.

Wings emerged from her back.

Fangs grew from her gums and her
fingers lengthened into claws.

Fly!

As her body ballooned, the ropes
dug into her growing ankles and wrists, cutting into flesh, and Laira
yowled. If she kept growing, the ropes would sever her feet and
hands.

I
still must shift,
she thought as Zerra approached.
I still must fly, even without hands and feet. I—

The ropes dug deeper, and the
agony overwhelmed her, knocking the magic from her grasp.

The scales, wings, and fangs
vanished. She shrank into a woman again, hanging limply from the
stake.

With a thin smile, Zerra tossed
the torch onto the pyre.

The kindling caught fire, and
heat bathed Laira, and she screamed. The flames raced up the pile of
wood, branch by branch, heading toward her feet.

What
do I do? Dragon stars, what do I do?

She screamed and tugged at her
bonds again. She reached for her magic but no longer found it. The
fire licked her toes and she screamed. Through the haze of smoke and
crackling flame, she saw the tribesmen cheer. Behind them the rocs
fluttered madly, snapping their beaks, awaiting their meal. Tears
filled Laira's eyes. She could barely see through the heat, and the
world swayed.

"Neiva!" she shouted
and managed a high whistle. "Neiva, to me!"

The smoke blinded her and filled
her mouth. The fire seared her feet.

"Neiva, please!"

She
opened her eyes to slits. The smoke billowed. The flames blazed.
Through the inferno, she saw wings flapping, talons reaching out,
yellow eyes gleaming. She had ridden this animal only once, had
bonded with Neiva for only a day, yet today she was
her
roc, bound to Laira with fire—and now her roc reached into the
flames. Talons closed around the stake, tugging, lifting the bole out
of the flaming pyre. Laira's feet rose from the blaze.

"Fly, Neiva! Fly north.
Fly!"

Laira's eyes rolled back. She
blinked, forcing herself to regain consciousness. The world spun
around her. Wings beat and the oily, rancid stench of the roc filled
her nostrils, and it was beautiful to her, the sweetest thing she'd
ever smelled. When she looked down, she saw the pyre consumed with
flame. The tribesmen were scurrying below and leaping onto their own
rocs.

"To the forest, Neiva!"
Laira shouted. If she still had any chance, it lay among those trees.

She was still tied to the stake,
trussed up and charred and bruised, a bit of meat on a skewer. She
felt so weak she could just slip into endless sleep. She ground her
teeth, bit down on her cheek, and forced herself to remain awake.

"I will not die," she
hissed, fists clenched behind the stake she was tied to. "I will
not give up. I will fight this until my very last drop of strength,
and then I will fight some more."

The roc flew, shrieking, holding
the stake in her talons. They glided toward the forest, a hundred
rocs shrieking and chasing behind them.

The grassy hills rolled below,
speckled with boulders and scattered elm trees. Mist hung in the
valleys, deer ran along a riverbank, and a forest of oaks, maples,
and birches sprawled in the north. Neiva flew toward those woods now,
descended above the canopy, and screeched.

"Through the trees!"
Laira said. "Land among them."

The roc hesitated. Clutching the
stake in both talons, Neiva seemed unable to land; the canopy was too
thick. With her talons free, perhaps Neiva could have parted the
branches, but now she merely hovered above the trees, holding the
stake. When Laira twisted her head, she saw the other rocs chasing,
and their riders fired arrows.

"Drop me!" Laira
cried. "Do it!"

Neiva tossed back her head, her
beak opened wide, and she cried out, the sound so loud Laira thought
her eardrums might snap. The roc's talons opened and the stake—Laira
tied to it—tumbled down.

Laira screamed as she crashed
through the canopy, snapping branches and scattering leaves. For an
instant she fell through open air. The stake hit a branch, tilted,
and straightened vertically; her feet faced the ground. Then, with a
thud that rattled her teeth and spine, the stake slammed into the
forest floor.

Laira cried out in pain, sure
that her bones had shattered. Every segment in her back seemed to
knock against another. She couldn't even breathe. She tried to gasp
for breath when the stake tilted forward. She winced, tugging at her
bonds . . . and slammed facedown into the dirt. The stake landed on
her back, creaking against her spine, driving her deep into the mud.
Soil filled her mouth, nostrils, and eyes.