Pillars of Dragonfire (17 page)

The harpy bristled. Her
dark wings spread out, dripping rot from their oily feathers. Her talons dug
deep into the earth. Her hair of serpents shrieked.

"The gods are
cruel. But you give us a home, Master. You see our strength."

Ishtafel had no more
eyebrows within his face of metal, but he raised what remained of the burnt,
swollen flesh above his eyes. "Do I, my dear? These ruins? This continent?
No, my sweetness, for you and your kind are far too foul and rancid to live in
Terra, the great continent of the south. Requiem will be your home. Across the
sea, in the cold north, you will reign above the corpses of the weredragons.
But only, Queen of Harpies, if you dare fly across the sea. If you prove
yourself weak . . ." He hefted his lance. "I will make you miss your
prison in Edinnu, and I will make you think the Eight Gods merciful."

The harpy hissed and
beat her wings. Her talons shattered stones, and she rose toward the sun,
crying out in fury. Across the coastal ruins, the other harpies rose like flies
disturbed from a carcass, darkening the sky, raining their rot. Ishtafel rose
with them, burnt wings churning smoke.

"To the sea!"
he cried. "To the greatest flight of our lives, a flight the poets will
sing of! To war! To victory! To Requiem!"

The sea was wide. Even
flying with all their speed, it would take three days and nights to cross.
There would be no food, no water, no rest along the way, and Ishtafel knew that
many of his harpies—the weak ones to be culled—would fall along the way, and
the sea would bury their shame.

But for those who
survived awaited their greatest trophy.

"The extermination
of a race," Ishtafel whispered as he flew. "The genocide of Requiem
in their very homeland, and their flesh to feed our bellies.

They flew across the
ruins and beach, and the sea spread below them. The harpies and their snakes
screeched and clawed the air, and their wings beat in a storm. Ishtafel flew at
their lead, a god of metal, wings spread wide.

Soon, Meliora.
He smiled thinly.
Soon I will feed your limbs to the harpies . . . and the
rest of you will be mine.

The sea spread to the
horizon, and beyond it . . . the land of weredragons.

 
 
JAREN

The nation of Requiem flew
over the sea, and Jaren flew at their lead, Meliora sleeping on his back.

For days now, Meliora
had flown at the head of the camp, daring not sleep for more than brief
moments. For days, she had blown her pillar of white fire, leading her people
in their exodus.

"Sleep now, my
daughter," Jaren whispered, looking over his shoulder at her. "I will
lead them onward as you rest."

Behind them spread
their ancient nation—the Vir Requis flying between sky and water, spreading
out for miles. Jaren had heard many tales of Old Requiem, had even read the old
scrolls which Queen Kalafi had kept in her chambers. He knew the story of
Requiem from its founder, King Aeternum, to its captivity in Saraph. Never in
its history had so many dragons flown together, had this entire, ancient race
risen in a single great flight.

My ancestor, King
Aeternum, founded a small tribe of only several souls . . . and now we are as
plentiful as grains of sand upon the beach, flying to our ancient homeland that
Aeternum gave us.

It was a day of great
history, of uprising, of danger, yet Meliora seemed suddenly like a child,
almost peaceful as she slept on his back. Her body was cut and bruised, thinner
than it had ever been. Her cheek rested on her hands, and her hair was growing
back, still barely long enough to cover her ears, soft and gold. Even as she
slept, her halo crackled, a low flame that warmed Jaren's scales. She wore
humble burlap, and a string of beads adorned her neck, made from the clay and
bitumen of Tofet. Some in Requiem had offered her fine gowns of muslin and
silk, taken from the sacked city of Keleshan, but Meliora had refused the garb.

"I wore kalasiri
gowns as a princess of Saraph," she had told her people. "Today let
me wear rough burlap and clay beads, for I am a freed slave, a daughter of
Requiem, and these garments have more nobility than any fine imperial raiment."

Meliora was descended
of two noble houses—the Thirteenth Dynasty of Saraph and House Aeternum of
Requiem—and she bore their nobility in her countenance, her conduct, and her
courage.

"But now rest,
Meliora," Jaren whispered. "Now sleep. For the road ahead is still
long."

He knew that many in
the camp wanted to crown Meliora, to name her Queen of Requiem, yet she had
refused. Not until they arrived in Requiem, until they stood in the light of
King's Column, would they choose another to rule them.

Let her just be my
daughter until then,
Jaren thought.

He
returned his eyes forward, staring across the water. The sea now spread to all
horizons, and Terra was no longer visible in the south. No Vir Requis had ever
left that southern continent, not in five hundred years, but according to their
stories, Requiem lay ahead. Still distant. Still several days of flight
away—the weak riding on the strong. But awaiting them. Their ancient homeland.

"Requiem,"
Jaren whispered.

He wondered what they
would find there. Hosts of seraphim and beasts they could not imagine? Piles of
rubble? Perhaps even other Vir Requis, some who had survived the slaughter and
captivity five centuries ago?

Sometimes Jaren
wondered if Requiem existed at all. In his darkest moments, he began to worry
that Requiem was but a myth, a legend told in Tofet to give workers hope. That
they would find nothing here at all, only water and death.

He closed his eyes, summoning
that memory. The night he had buried Elory's ear, the night he had nearly lost
hope, lost his life. The night his soul had risen to the celestial halls, seen
the fabled Queen Gloriae, the day she had told him to still fly, still fight
for Requiem.

"Was that only a
dream?" Jaren whispered. "Only the hallucination of a broken
mind?"

The sun was setting,
and as darkness fell across the sea and sky, so did shadows seem to engulf
Jaren's soul. He had seen so many die—countless thousands perish in Tofet and
the fields of Saraph. He had lost his wife to Ishtafel's lance. Would now the
last Vir Requis perish, chasing a mere dream, a land that was but a myth? And
even should they reach land again, would they find only more enemies, trapped
between a new host and the harpies that still gave chase?

"Why do you let so
many perish?" Jaren whispered, staring up into the indigo sky. "If
you're truly up there, spirits of Requiem, why do you let us die? Why do you
let so many suffer? Why did you let the yokes and whips break our backs for
five hundred years?"

No voices answered him.
No celestial columns shone above. No ancient kings and queens appeared before
him in the shadows. Perhaps they did not exist; perhaps they had always been
only hallucinations, dreams, hopes. Foolishness.

The sun dipped below
the sea, casting red light like blood, and Jaren's chest tightened, and his
head spun to remember so many dying in his arms.

He raised his eyes,
seeking to look away from the water below. The last sunlight faded, and there
above he saw them.

At first they were dim.
At first Jaren doubted his eyes, thought that surely his eyes were playing
tricks on him. He kept flying, kept staring, and tears filled his eyes.

Voices rose across the
camp, one by one.

"Bless Requiem!"

"Requiem, our
wings find your sky!"

Old, grizzled warriors
wept. Children prayed. Dragons danced in the sky, calling out in joy, and the
tears of Requiem fell like rain. Those Vir Requis who rode in human forms,
sleeping or nursing their wounds, rose as dragons too, their voices rising in
song.

Jaren's tears fell.

"I'm sorry,"
he whispered. "I'm sorry to have ever doubted you, Requiem."

Above him it shone,
brilliant in the night, and for the first time in five centuries, the children
of Requiem gazed upon its light—the Draco constellation.

The stars were arranged
as a great celestial dragon, rising in the northern sky, skimming the sea.
Brightest among them shone the eye of the dragon, Issari's Star, a beacon said
to be formed of Issari's soul itself.

Roused by the song of
dragons, Meliora rose upon Jaren's back and shifted. She flew beside Jaren, her
eyes damp, staring at the distant lights.

"Our stars,"
she whispered. "Our fabled stars. Their light guides us to Requiem. The
celestial dragon calls us home."

Meliora rose higher in
the sky, spinning as she soared, wings spread wide, a great silvery dragon the
color of starlight. Jaren rose with her, his green scales bright in the night,
the color of Requiem's forests that he now knew awaited them. With them rose
Vale, dark blue, and Lucem, red as fire, and Elory, deep purple in the night.
They flew together, leading the others onward—away from the blinding heat and
sunlight of captivity, toward the gentle light of stars.

"Home," Jaren
whispered. "Requiem is real."

 
 
VALE

The Draco constellation rose
throughout the night, ascending toward the sky's zenith, shining bright. As the
other dragons sang and prayed, Vale gazed upon those stars, and more than pride
or joy, he felt grief.

In the night, the
dragons of Requiem sang and danced in the sky. The sea spread below, the
starlit sky above. The dragons raised no fire, letting the light of their
constellation shine bright, guiding them home. They sang together in a one
voice, the ancient prayers of their people, the prayers that had sustained them
through centuries of toil. Yet Vale did not join them, could not feel that
holiness.

"You should have
been here with us, Tash," he whispered as he glided on the wind. "You
should be seeing these stars with me."

He lowered his head,
looking away from the light, missing her, aching for her.

She appeared in his
memories, so real, as if he could reach out and touch her. Her long brown hair
which he loved to stroke. Her mocking brown eyes that could see into his soul.
Her coquettish smiles, her small pale hands. Her body pressed against his, clad
in her silks, a jewel shining in her navel. And he thought of her kindness—the
woman who had risked her life to save Meliora, who had found the Chest of
Plenty, and who had fought just as hard to heal Vale's heart, to soothe the
pain she had seen within him.

Yet how can I remain
strong with you?
Vale thought.
You healed the hurt inside me, but now
you're gone, and now the pain seems too great to bear. I miss you so much,
Tash. I love you so much.

He imagined her here
with him, gliding at his side, a slender golden dragon. She would grin at him,
eyes alight, and they would gaze at those stars together, knowing that soon
they would be home, that soon their wars would end, that soon they would be
wed, grow old together, pray to their stars every night.

But you'll never
grow old, Tash. You'll always stay young in my memories. I promise that I will
never forget you, that I will think of you whenever I look at our stars.

Chinking scales sounded
beside him, and Vale turned to see a white dragon flying at his side, her horns
and scales shimmering with hints of gold and silver. The dragon smiled at him,
her golden eyes sad, their pupils shaped as sunbursts.

"You don't sing
with us." Meliora's eyes were sad, and she glided closer, nuzzling him
with her snout. "Can I fly with you, brother?"

Vale looked at the
white dragon, his older sister—the sister he had just met this year. He spoke
softly.

"Throughout my
life, toiling in the inferno of Tofet, I would sometimes gaze south toward the
distant lights of Shayeen. As the chains chafed my ankles, as the whips tore
into my back, as the thousands cried out around me, I would try to imagine the
palace rising in Shayeen, the City of Kings. I would try to imagine my sister
there—Meliora of the Thirteenth Dynasty, Great of Graces, Princess of Saraph."

Meliora lowered her
head, and now tears streamed down her scaly cheeks. "I'm sorry, Vale.
During those years, I would live in the palace, and I would stand on the
balcony. And I would gaze north—north to Tofet. From my balcony, I couldn't
see much that lay across the river, only a haze. I imagined that the slaves
lived like my handmaidens. In comfort. Always with food, with drink, with
shelter, with song. When I first entered Tofet and saw the bronze bull, saw
your broken bodies, the despair in your eyes . . ." She shuddered. "I
never forgot how much grief I felt then. How much guilt. To know that I had
grown in comfort over the blood, sweat, and tears of the Vir Requis. I didn't
know then that I'm one of you, but I knew that my life had been a lie. I knew
that I was no beloved princess, but that I was a tyrant."

Vale nodded. "You
didn't know. You couldn't have known. Father always told us that—told Elory
and me. 'Meliora does not know who her father is,' Jaren would say. 'Nor do any
others in Shayeen or Tofet. But she's one of us. A Vir Requis. A daughter. A
sister. A great light that we pray will return to us someday.' Jaren repeated
these words to us again and again in our little hut."

Gliding at his side
between sea and stars, Meliora gazed at him through the veil of tears.
"And did you believe him?"

He smiled grimly.
"For many years, I wondered if those stories were true, if indeed you're
my sister, or whether Father simply told a story to comfort me and Elory. I often
prayed to whatever gods might listen to see you, Meliora, if only a glimpse
from the distance. If only another seraph in the sky above Tofet. I thought
that if I could gaze into your eyes, I'd know the truth."