Requiem's Song (Book 1) (9 page)

Making her way closer to the
water, she steeled herself, rubbing her eyes and tightening her jaw.

I
must be strong,
she
told herself.
My
brother needs me. I came here to save him, and I can't do that by
crying or whimpering at a few smacks or taunts.

She
stepped toward the edge of the canal. Many boats moored here at
piers, and others sailed back and forth, entering and leaving the
port. Some were the simple reed boats of fishermen, their single
sails barely larger than her cloak. Others were proud, oared merchant
vessels, built of sturdy wood, their hulls bedecked with paintings of
the winged bull—Kur-Paz, the god of plenty. Slaves sat in them,
chained to the oars, their skin bronzed in the sun. Not all were
Eteerian ships; Issari saw vessels of foreign lands too. The northern
barbarians sailed wide, oared cogs engraved with animal totems.
Issari shivered to see these foreigners—they were gruff folk, clad
in fur and leather, their beards bushy.

These
men will sail back north,
Issari thought, looking at the foreigners.
They
will return to the open, cold wilderness . . . where Laira hides.

Issari's eyes moistened.

"Laira," she
whispered.

She could not remember her older
sister. Laira had been only three when she fled with Mother into
exile, escaping Father's wrath. Issari had been only a babe.

"But if you're out there,
Laira, you're twenty now," Issari whispered. "You're tall
and strong, and you can become a dragon, and you can save our
brother. I know you can."

Issari lowered her head to
remember visiting Aerhein Tower. She had climbed the winding
staircases, approached the door, and peered through the keyhole. Sena
had knelt in chains, his face so bruised and swollen Issari had
barely recognized him. Issari had begged the guards—towering men all
in bronze—to enter the cell, to comfort her older brother, but they
had shoved her back. When the guards had told her father of her
visit, the king had struck her.

Issari raised her hand to her
swollen cheek, still feeling the blow. "I cannot save you from
the tower, brother," she whispered as she watched the ships sail
by. "But a dragon can. Mother can. Laira can."

For the first time in her life,
Issari wished she too were cursed. Why couldn't she have inherited
Mother's disease? So many times these past few days, Issari had tried
to shift, focusing all her energy on the task. She had screwed her
eyes shut, leaped into the air, and willed herself to become a
dragon. A dragon could fly to the tower top, smash the window's bars,
and fly away with Sena to freedom. Yet try as she might, Issari was
pure of body, a blessing unto Taal, the god of beauty and the human
form. She carried not the reptilian blood like her mother and
siblings, and so Sena languished.

A blow hit the back of her head.

Issari winced and scurried a few
paces away, half-expecting to see Father here. If he caught her in
this port, he would imprison her too.

But it was only a towering,
gruff sailor. The man had a leathery face, one eye, and a chest
tattooed with leaping fish. Upon his shoulder, he carried a basket of
squid and shrimp.

"Stop standing here, gaping
like a fool," he said and raised his hand to smack her again.
"Men are working here. Get back to whatever brothel you fled
from."

As Issari stepped back, the man
walked by her, moving along the boardwalk. Several other sailors
walked behind him, spitting and snorting. One glob of spit landed
right on Issari's foot, and she winced and gulped down her disgust.

"I . . . I heard a tale!"
she said, speaking in a high, hesitant voice. "I heard that the
prince could become a dragon, that he's imprisoned in a tower. Will
you be sailing north? They like stories in the north, and—"

But the men only trundled by,
carrying hooks, ropes, and baskets, ignoring her.

Issari tightened her lips. She
knew her task. She had to spread the news. She had to make sure all
the northern barbarians across the sea knew of Sena. She had to let
Laira know.

Because
you'll come for him,
Issari knew.
You'll
fly back home, strong and brave, a great golden dragon. Maybe you'll
have an army of dragons with you. And you'll save our brother.

She walked farther down the
boardwalk, moving between fishermen sorting their catches, a legless
child begging for coins, and a leper begging for prayers. She
approached a few sailors, trying to tell them the news, but they were
too busy hauling supplies, mending nets, or even drinking booze to
notice. After a few more slaps, kicks, and spits, Issari's spirits
sank.

Maybe it was hopeless. She had
been a fool to come here. Surely her father had noticed her absence
by now. Would he beat her? Would he chain her too?

Her wandering brought her to the
root of the canal. Here before her stretched the open sea. Dozens of
ships sailed in the water—merchants, fishermen, and military vessels
with proud banners. The smell of salt, fresh fish, and dates hanging
from a nearby tree filled her nostrils. Seagulls flew overhead, their
cries sounding like mocking laughter. Issari stepped onto the stone
wall that separated her from the coast, leaned across the
battlements, and stared at the sand, the seashells, and the water
that spread into the horizon.

"You're somewhere over that
horizon, Mother and Laira," she whispered. "How can I
deliver you this news?"

Perhaps she should smuggle
herself onto a ship, sail north, and walk through the wilderness,
asking of her family in every village and tribe. And yet how could
one girl find two souls? The north was vast, they said, its people
scattered. There were no kingdoms there, no roads, no writing, no
civilization—only endless, empty spaces and patches of life.

Issari turned away from the sea.
She was prepared to head back home when she heard laughter to her
left.

She turned her head and saw a
small stone building. At first she had not noticed it; it nestled
between a few olive trees, tucked away a little distance from the
canal. Laughter rose from within, and she even heard a man singing.
Hope kindled in Issari.

"A tavern," she
whispered.

She tightened her robe around
her, fixed the shawl that hid her hair, and entered the building.

A crowded room greeted her.
Sailors, merchants, and soldiers sat at a dozen wooden tables,
drinking and eating. The smells of ale, fried fish and garlic, and
stewed figs filled Issari's nostrils, intoxicating and delicious. Tin
engravings of fish, ships, and even a dragon hung upon the walls, and
candles burned in sconces. A stone tablet stood near the bar,
engraved with the slim, cuneiform characters of Eteer—a wine menu.
Stone jugs of the wines—each large enough for Issari to have hidden
inside—stood along the walls, painted with scenes of racing
chariots, men hunting deer, and the wars of gods.

"And the sea serpent had
three heads!" one sailor was saying, standing on a table.
"Three—I counted them. And when I chopped one off, it grew two
more."

Other sailors roared in
laughter. "You're drunk, you are. Sea serpents with growing
heads?"

Across the room, standing over a
table topped with scattered mancala pieces, a merchant was patting
his ample belly and telling his own tale. "And they say the
Queen of Tiranor is so fair, a thousand ships sailed to fetch her the
Jewel of Alari, but no jewel is as bright as her eyes."

A dozen more stories were being
told around the room. This was the place Issari had sought—a hub of
songs, tall tales, and gossip of distant lands.

She approached the bar, handed
over a copper coin—it showed her father on one side, the winged bull
on the other—and purchased a mug of wine. She winced, expecting a
foul drink, but the wine was surprisingly good, as fine as the wine
Father sometimes let her drink in the palace. After a few sips to
steel her resolve, she turned toward the crowd and spoke in a high,
clear voice.

"I have a story!"

Nobody seemed to hear her. The
sailor kept speaking of the sprouting heads, the merchant kept
extolling the distant queen's beauty, and others gossiped of King
Nir-Ur's recent death and the rise of Raem Seran to power.

"They say Raem stabbed his
father right in the gut, they do," said one soldier, his cheeks
flushed and his eyes watery. "Killed the old man in the gardens,
they say. They fought over how to deal with them dragons been
cropping up."

The man's friends glowered.
"Lower your voice! That's no proper talk." Soon the group
was arguing.

Issari stood on tiptoes and
raised her voice. "I have a tale of dragons! They say Prince
Sena Seran, son of King Raem, is cursed with dragon blood."

At once the tavern silenced.

All eyes turned toward her.

Issari gulped, dizzy at the
sudden attention. Praying nobody recognized her—the city folk had
only seen her high upon her balcony, clad in finery—she spoke again.

"Prince Sena himself turned
into a dragon! King Raem imprisoned him in Aerhein Tower, they say.
He's keeping his own son in chains, so the prince can never
shapeshift again."

As quickly as the tavern had
grown silent, it erupted with new sound. Men pounded on the tables
and demanded to know her name, to know where she had heard the news.
Others nodded vigorously, saying they had indeed heard whimpers from
the tower. Some claimed they had even seen Sena as a blue dragon,
flying in the night; they swore they could recognize the prince even
in dragon form.

Issari smiled tremulously. The
seed was planted.

When she walked along the
boardwalk, heading back toward the palace, she already heard the
rumor spreading. Sailors, loading their ships, laughed about the
Dragon Prince in his tower, awaiting rescue like a damsel. Fisherman
whispered to one another, pointing at the distant palace, speaking of
the creature the king kept hidden away. Ships sailed out into the
open water, carrying the news, a story too scandalous, too horrible,
too dangerous not to spread like wildfire.

When Issari was back in the
palace, she entered her chambers—those chambers so empty without her
brother—and stepped onto her balcony. Clad again in a fine tunic
hemmed with gold, her raven braid upon her shoulder, she leaned
against the railing and stared across the city to the distant sea.

"If you're out there,
Mother," she whispered, "if you hear these tales, Laira . .
. come back. Come back as dragons. Come back with claws, fangs, and
fire . . . and save him."

 
 
LAIRA

In
the cold dawn, Laira mounted a roc, dug her heels into the beast, and
soared into the sky on her first hunt.

The
wind whipped her face, Neiva's wings beat like drums, and Laira
laughed upon the gargantuan vulture. She shouted wordlessly and
raised her bow above her head.

"Goldtusk!"
she cried, soaring so fast her ears popped and her head spun.
"Blessed be the gilded ivory of Ka'altei!"

Around
her, the other hunters raised javelins and bows and roared their
prayers, calling out the name of their tribe and gods. All were
men—beefy, clad in furs, wild of hair and beard. Bone beads hung
around their necks and tattoos of their totem animals adorned their
arms. Some riders sported tin rings in their ears, lips, and brows,
the precious material stolen from the villages that knew the secrets
of metallurgy. A few of the hunters were mere boys, the youngest
among them thirteen.

I
am twenty, old already, and this is my first hunt,
Laira thought.
Yet this
is not the first time I've flown.

Heart
wrenching, she remembered the only other time she had taken flight—a
cold autumn day so long ago. As she soared now upon her roc, Laira
could almost see her mother again, a proud white dragon on the wind.
She could almost smell Mother's burning flesh, hear her dying
screams, see the rocs feast upon—

No,
Laira
told herself.
Do
not raise that memory now. Now you must be strong. Now you must prove
you are a great huntress, as great as the men.

She
took a deep, shuddering breath. Between
her legs an ache still lived, the pain of Zerra's thrusts, but as the
roc moved below her, that pain faded into a comforting throb. It kept
her alert, alive, hungry for the hunt. They left the camp far below
upon the hill. Their tents, their tribesmen, their dogs, and even
their totem pole seemed like toys from up here. Soon the camp
vanished into the hazy distance, and Laira saw only the open
wilderness: fields of swaying grass, fiery autumn forests of birches
and maples, a rushing river, and distant blue mountains under white
clouds. Geese and crows flew below her, and clouds streamed at her
sides.

This
is freedom,
Laira
thought.
I missed this.

"Prove
yourself today, and I will bed you again!" Zerra cried, flying
his roc near hers.

His
was a great beast, a terror named Ashoor, the largest roc in the
tribe. Every flap of the animal's oily black wings blasted out
stench. Its gangly neck thrust out, ending with a bald head and cruel
beak. Zerra was no prettier than his mount; his burned half faced
her. Laira winced to remember his body pressing against her last
night, wet and sticky.

"I
will prove myself," Laira shouted back from atop Neiva, though
the thought of him invading her again made her queasy, and pain
flared in her belly. She had allowed him into her once; would hunting
game today not be enough? Would he demand this price before every
hunt? Bile rose in Laira's throat, but she swallowed it with a snarl.

I
will prove myself the greatest hunter, and he will learn to respect
me . . . to fear me.