Requiem's Song (Book 1) (16 page)

 
 
ISSARI

She
stood upon the balcony, the wind fluttering her tunic, watching the
demons swarm over her city.

Eteer,
center of the sprawling Eteerian civilization, had once been a city
of pale towers rising into clear skies; swaying palm and fig trees; a
peaceful blue sea lapping at mossy walls; and proud people robed in
white, walking along cobbled streets, welcoming the ships that sailed
in. Birds would sing among the trees, and the sweet scents of fruit
and spices would waft upon the wind. Once, standing here, Issari
would see a great mosaic of peace and beauty.

Today
she saw a hive of rot and flame.

A
thousand creatures of the Abyss filled the city now—crawling upon
walls, festering upon roofs, and fluttering in the sky. Each of the
creatures was a unique horror. Issari saw demons of scales, demons of
tentacles, demons of slime, of rot, of fire. She saw creatures turned
inside out, organs glistening upon their inverted skin. She saw
bloated, warty things drag themselves along cobbled streets, leaving
trails of slime. The heads of children, innocent and fair, rose upon
the bodies of clattering centipedes. Bloated faces of dogs sneered
upon the armored bodies of crabs. Conjoined twins, ten or more
stitched together with demon thread, moved upon their many legs.

Some
creatures were small, no larger than dogs. Others were as large as
mules. Everywhere they sniffed, snorted, sought the weredragons.
Everywhere they barged through doors, rummaged through temples,
pulling out families, licking, smelling, rubbing, discarding.

Issari
stood above, staring upon this waking nightmare, her eyes damp. Her
fingers clung to the railing.

What
has happened to my home?

A
voice rose behind her, answering her thoughts.

"They
are seeking weredragons. They are ugly, my daughter, and they
frighten you, but they are purifying our city of the disease."

She
turned to see her father step onto the balcony. He came to stand
beside her, leaned over the railing, and watched the creatures swarm
down the streets and across the roofs.

Issari
spoke in a small voice. "But Father, aren't we just bringing a
greater evil into our kingdom?"

Raem
turned toward her, and she saw the anger in his eyes. He clenched his
fists, and Issari stepped back, sure he would strike her; he had
struck her many times before. But his fire died as fast as it had
kindled, and he caressed her cheek.

"You
are pure, Issari, the only pure thing I have left. But you are young,
and you are innocent. There is no evil greater than having a pure
human form and betraying it. Our lord Taal forbids tattoos,
piercings, obesity, or any disgrace against the form he gave us. To
shift into a reptile is the greatest abomination. These demons might
look strange, but they are doing Taal's work."

Screams
rose below, and Issari spun back toward the city. On a street not far
away, a host of demons—red creatures with bat wings—dragged an old
man from his home. The greybeard tried to fight them, but the demons
clung with clawed hands. Their snouts sniffed, pressing against the
man's skin.

"Weredragon,
weredragon!" the demons cried. "We found a reptile!"

Issari
sucked in her breath. At her side, Raem leaned forward, baring his
teeth, seeming almost hungry.

The
old man below managed to tear himself free. He burst into a run, only
for the demons to leap onto his legs and knock him down. Then, as
Issari watched and gasped, the man shifted.

A
thin silver dragon beat his wings, rising into the air. Before he
could clear the roofs, the company of demons leaped onto the dragon
like wolves on a bison. They slammed the silver beast onto the
cobblestones and laughed, clawed, bit. They tore off scales,
scattering them across the street, and blood splashed. With a
whimper, the dragon lost his magic, returning to human form.

Issari
looked away, but Raem pushed her face back toward the city.

"Watch,
daughter," said the king. "You must see this."

The
demons tore the old man apart. One demon lifted a severed leg over
its head, parading it as a trophy. Other demons tore out internal
organs, and one began to feast upon the entrails. The demons danced
with their prizes, slick with blood.

Issari
winced, horror rising inside her. She closed her eyes. "This is
evil, Father. This is wrong."

He
gripped her wrist and his eyes blazed. "This is dominion. One
cannot rule a kingdom with compassion, only with strength. With your
siblings gone, you are my heir. This land will someday be yours. I
will no longer pamper you. Accustom yourself to blood. When you are
Queen, you too will shed blood . . . or others will shed yours."

Issari
did not want to be Queen. She wished she could fly away too—like
Laira. She closed her eyes, imagining that she too could shift. If
she could become a dragon, she could fly off this balcony, soar so
high even the demons could not catch her. She would head north, find
her mother and sister, and flee this horrible city.

Yet
as her father had said, she was pure. No reptile curse filled her
veins. She remained a young woman, trapped upon this balcony.

She
opened her eyes and mouth, about to plead with her father, to beg him
to return the demons to the Abyss, when the crone stepped onto the
balcony.

"So
here they are—father and sister to the maggot."

Issari
spun around and gasped. In the balcony doorway stood the strangest
woman she'd ever seen. The crone was bent over, wizened as a raisin,
and clad in animal skins. Warts covered her hooked nose, and her
fingernails were long and yellow. Wisps of white hair covered her
scalp, and her mouth opened in a cruel, toothless grin.

Is
this a demon?
Issari
wondered, heart racing.

"Who
are you?" Raem demanded, taking a step toward the crone. "How
did you pass the guards?"

The
wizened old creature cackled. She reached out twig-like fingers to
rap his armor. "You are a man of metal, of might, of many
demons. But Old Shedah still has some tricks." She spat right
onto the balcony floor, then turned toward Issari. "Well . . .
and look at this one. A fair, ripe fruit, she is." The crone
reached up to stroke Issari's breast. "You are taller and fairer
than your sister. She is a worm, but you are a rare flower. You would
make a fine bride for my chieftain."

Issari
took a step backward, banging her back against the balcony railing.
"Stay away, witch! How dare you speak of my sister?"

"Witch?
No, I am no witch." Shedah bared her toothless gums in a mockery
of a grin. "I am Shaman of the Goldtusk tribe, once the
sanctuary of Queen Anai, that diseased reptile, and Laira, the little
maggot." She stroked Issari's cheek, her fingernails sharp.
"Your mother and sister. I have traveled for long days to this
land, moving down the shadowy paths unknown to those of simple minds.
I bring news of them, oh princess of distant lands."

Raem
snarled and grabbed the old woman's wrist, tugging her away from
Issari. "Keep your filthy hands to yourself." He stepped
back into the palace, dragging the crone with him. "Guards!
Guards, where—"

When
they stepped into the chamber, both king and princess gasped. The
guards lay on the floor, fast asleep, lips fluttering as they snored.

Shedah
cackled and spat upon one. "Weak worms. How did you folk ever
build a kingdom of stone and metal? You are guarded by weak boys,
their cheeks smoother than my backside." The crone snorted.
"Come north across the sea, oh king, and you will see the
strength of true warriors."

Raem's
face flushed. He slid his khopesh from his belt and raised the curved
blade. Issari had to race forward and stop him.

"Father!
Wait. She knows Mother. She knows Laira."

Looking
back at the shaman, Issari trembled. Could it be? Could this crone be
speaking truth? Issari's eyes stung and her knees shook.

My
mother . . . my sister . . .

Issari
could not remember them, for they had fled too long ago. Father had
smashed all paintings, statues, and engravings depicting Queen Anai
and Princess Laira, but Issari had always dreamed of seeing them
again. If this shaman had news, there was hope.

"What
do you know?" she said, turning toward Shedah. "Tell us.
Tell us everything."

Shedah
licked her lips. "My sweet child, your mother is dead. Burned at
the stake. I watched her burn and I spat upon her charred corpse."

Issari
stared, unable to breathe, and her eyes stung.

Mother
. . . no . . .

Issari
had been only a babe when Mother fled this city. She could not
remember the woman, but she dreamed about her every night. In her
dreams, Mother looked like her—her black hair braided, her eyes
green and soft, her face kind. All her life that whisper, that warm
vision, had comforted Issari, for she knew that even if Mother was
far away, she still lived. She still cared for her daughter.

Dead.
Burned.

Tears
gathered in Issari's eyes.

"You
are lying!" she shouted at the crone.

Shedah
reached into her pouch and produced a silver amulet. It bore an
engraving of Taal—a man with his head lowered, his arms hanging at
his sides, his palms facing outward—a sigil of purity and humility.

"The
amulet of Eteer's queen—Anai's last relic of her once royal past."
The shaman tossed the talisman toward Issari. "Keep it. And
whenever you look at it, remember that your mother screamed like a
butchered pig when the flames licked the flesh off her bones."

As
Issari clutched the amulet, Raem grabbed the crone's arms and leaned
down, glaring at her.

"What
of Laira?" the king demanded. "What of my daughter?"

Shedah
licked her lips with her long, white tongue. "The maggot fled
our tribe. She was heading north when we lost her scent, but I know
where she was going." Shedah pressed her withered hand against
the king's cheek. "I will reveal all to you, mighty king, in
return for but one gift."

Raem
clutched the woman's arms so tightly they seemed ready to snap. "What
do you desire?"

"The
same as you, my lord. The same as all who are wise.
Power
."
She sneered. "For years, I placed leeches upon the flesh of
Laira, sucking up her blood for my potions. The blood of a princess
is mighty, and my stores run low." The shaman turned toward
Issari and gave her a hungry, lustful look. "Give me your one
daughter, and I will give you the other."

 
 
JEID

He
flew.

Sometimes
he just needed to fly.

The
night stretched around him, moonless, starless, a world without
sight, a sea of wind and blackness and cold air. He did not know
where he flew. Most nights he no longer cared.

Jeid
Blacksmith, men used to call him—a forger of bronze.

Grizzly,
his children called him—a shaggy, endearing old beast, lumbering and
harmless.

Diseased,
said those who lived in wilderness and towns. A creature. Cursed.

Flying
here upon the wind, he no longer knew who he was. He no longer knew
what to call himself.

"Who
am I, Keyla?" he asked, the wind all but drowning his voice.

He
saw her face in the night—his wife, her hair golden in the sun, her
smile bright. A sad woman—her smile had always seemed sad to
him—but one who clung to every sliver of joy, cradling and
nourishing it, letting it grow even through pain.

"You
are Jeid." She spoke in his mind and touched his cheek. "You
are my husband. You are a father to our children."

He
lowered his head. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell his wife
that their youngest daughter was dead, that the people of the
plains—perhaps Zerra's wandering tribe, perhaps the people of
Oldforge or another town—had poisoned her.

But
Keyla already knew. He saw that knowledge in her eyes.

"You're
together now," Jeid whispered. "And I want to join you."

The
pain constricted his throat. How easy it would be—to shift into
human form, to plummet down through this darkness, to hit the ground
and feel no pain, only a relief from pain, only the rise of his soul
to the stars. And he would be with Keyla and Requiem again. He could
hold his wife, kiss his daughter, nevermore feel hurt, nevermore feel
alone and afraid and torn.

"You
must be strong," Keyla said, and he barely saw her now. His wife
was but a wisp, a fading memory, a voice of starlight. "For the
others."

Rage
filled Jeid. The fire crackled through his body. He released it with
a great, showering blaze, a beacon that any roc for marks could see.
But Jeid no longer cared.

"Why
must this be my task?" His wings shook, and his claws dug into
his soles. "Why must I lead this new tribe? I am tired. I want
to sleep. I want to be with you again."

He
looked up to the sky. The clouds parted and he saw three stars—the
tail of the dragon, the new constellation that shone in the skies.
And there he saw a silver countenance, no longer his wife but his
daughter. Young Requiem shone above, wise and sad like her mother had
been.

And
Jeid knew the answer.

"Because
I vowed to you, Requiem." His eyes stung. "I vowed to build
a home in your name—so no others would die like you died." He
shook, scales rattling. "But I wish you were here with me. I
wish you could live in this home too, my daughter."

The
clouds gathered again, the light faded, and she was gone.

Jeid
blasted out more fire. He sucked in air, ground his teeth, and kept
flying.

He
flew in blackness.

He
flew throughout the night—to remember and to forget.