Children ran across the dock, carrying baskets of oysters, and nearly knocked Treale into the water. She tightened her lips, steadied her legs, and walked on. The planks creaked beneath her, and between them, she saw silvery fish whisk between weeds. When she raised her head, she saw the city of Irys before her, a great hodgepodge of sandstone and wood.
She walked between two guard towers, following a troupe of merchants riding donkeys. Soon she was walking along cobbled streets. Multitudes of people crowded around her; even before the wars, fewer people than this had lived in all of Requiem. Women walked bearing baskets of fruits and fabrics upon their heads. One man led a small, leashed monkey, an animal Treale had only seen in books. Priests walked in white robes, chanting and bearing lamps even as the sun blazed overhead. Mudbrick buildings and wooden stalls covered the roadsides. Shops and carts sold vases, fabrics, fruits and spices, dried meats and fresh seafood, iron tools and golden jewelry, and even—Treale gasped to see it—slaves in chains. Everywhere wafted the scents of freshly caught fish, wine and beer, a hundred spices, and beyond them all the sandy smell of the desert.
"Where are you, Mori?" Treale whispered.
She walked along the streets, leaving the docks behind. She found herself between brick homes whose roofs overflowed with gardens. Palm trees lined the streets, heavy with dates, finches, and scurrying monkeys. In gardens between the houses grew fig trees and grapevines on lattices. Treale had grown up in northeast Requiem, a land of pines, birches, and maples—cold and stately trees. This place was lush, the hot air thick with the scents of fruit and leaf and soil.
A child ran by her, racing a barrel hoop, and nearly crashed into a group of maidens bearing baskets of grapes upon their heads. Three priests rode down the street upon white horses, swinging bowls of incense and blowing ram horns in prayer. Soldiers marched around a silo, spears clacking against the cobblestones, their faces hidden behind ibis helms. Treale's head spun. She had never seen so many people crammed into one labyrinth; the city of Irys was like a great book overflowing with countless characters.
It seemed that she walked for hours. Treale had grown up on farmlands where only a couple hundred people lived. Whenever she would visit Nova Vita, the capital of Requiem where fifty thousand had dwelled, she would think it massive; her head would spin to see those crowds. This place dwarfed Nova Vita; beside it, the old capital of Requiem had been but a humble town.
Did we ever stand a chance in this war? Treale wondered. Was there ever a hope to defeat this southern empire where millions live?
As if in answer, shrieks sounded above, and Treale raised her eyes to see a flight of wyverns.
There were four of them; they flew in battle formation, two attackers flanked by two defenders. Treale leaped, driven by instinct, and crouched behind an abandoned cart. Her heart hammered, her head spun, and her hand closed around the hilt of her dagger. The wyverns screamed overhead, and once more Treale was running through the forests of Requiem, bleeding and burnt, seeking a place to hide and a hope to cling to. Then the wyverns disappeared over the roofs of the buildings, flying north to sea, and Treale breathed shakily.
"I'm safe here," she whispered to herself. "I'm only Till here, Till the refugee from Osanna, not Lady Treale of Requiem. These wyverns will not hurt me."
She released her dagger, and was about to stand up, when a shout rose.
"Girl! Girl, you, behind the wheelbarrow. Come over here."
Treale's heart hammered. She rose to see soldiers staring at her from their ibis helms; she could not see their faces. Each bore a spear, a sabre, and a round shield emblazoned with a painted sun. Each wore steel plates. There were twenty of them, automatons of metal, and Treale clenched her fists to stop them from trembling. She realize that her hood had fallen off, revealing her black hair, olive skin, and dark eyes, foreign colors in this realm of platinum hair, golden skin, and eyes like glimmering sapphires.
As the soldiers approached her, Treale struggled not to tremble or flee. She thought of King Elethor, and of Mori, and of the courage of Requiem's warriors, and she bowed her head.
"My lords," she said. "I am new to this city, and I seek work. Would you know of any seamstresses looking for help?"
One of the soldiers marched up to her, grabbed her arm, and stared through his visor. She could see his eyes—blue and shrewd. He grumbled deep in his throat.
"Osanna scum," he said over his shoulder to his comrades. "I know the accent. The bastards have been overflowing the port since their Undead War started."
Treale couldn't help but breathe out in relief. Her accent, learned from flying across the border into Osanna many times in her youth, had just saved her life.
If they knew I am Vir Requis, a daughter of their sworn enemies, they would execute me here on the street.
"Aye, my lord," Treale said and curtsied, as the daughters of Osanna were wont to do. "The undead rise from Fidelium's mountains and march across our realm. They slew my father; he was a weaver. I can weave too! Would you be so kind as to direct me to a seamstress? I will work for room and board."
The soldiers grumbled, and one laughed and whispered to his friend; Treale caught something about how she would better serve as a whore than a seamstress, which was all Osannan women were good for. Treale bit her lip. Osannans were perhaps scum to these tall, noble sons of Tiranor; scum could be spat upon, cursed, and allowed to live. That was more than they would offer her if they knew her true parentage.
The soldier who had first addressed her drew his sabre, and Treale gasped, sure that he would slay her after all. When he swung his blade, however, he slammed its flat end across her backside. She yelped; the pain bit her like a whip.
"Be gone, scum!" he said. "Seamstress? Find a brothel with a bed to warm, or find a gutter to clean of nightsoil. That's all you Osannans are good for. If I see you on these streets again, my sword will slice your neck."
He gave her a second lashing, this one against her legs, sending her scurrying down the street. Treale gritted her teeth, and sudden rage flared inside her. She clenched her fists. A brothel? A gutter? She was a lady of Requiem. She could shift into a black dragon and burn these men dead in a heartbeat. She felt the magic crackle inside her, the ancient power of Requiem's stars. Her fingernails began growing into claws, her teeth lengthening into fangs.
No.
She swallowed, forcing her magic down. It fizzled away, leaving her a mere human. If she became a dragon now, she could kill these men, it was true… and then a thousand wyverns would descend upon her.
Find Mori first. That is what you must do now. Even if you must swallow some pride.
Shame burning across her, her backside and legs blazing with pain, she gave another curtsy.
"Thank you, my lords, you are most kind, and your generous lashing reminds me of my place."
With that, she scurried around a corner, hoping she would never encounter those men again. She walked down a narrow street and pulled her hood down again. She would be wise to keep herself concealed, she decided, especially if she met other refugees from Osanna; she could fool brutish Tirans, but if other refugees of the Undead War encountered her, she doubted her accent was accurate enough to trick them too.
As she kept exploring the city, Treale kept waiting for it to end. And yet, as she walked south, Irys kept sprawling. Was she walking in circles? When she found stairs leading up a temple wall, she climbed up, looked around from a height, and gasped. Irys spread around her for miles.
I've been walking for hours, yet I've only explored the northern port, she realized. Most of the city still lay south of her, a jumble of walls, towers, squares, and countless winding streets. Stars, a million people must live here!
She climbed down the wall and kept walking, barely able to grasp one place with so many lives. Wagons trundled down the street before her, their horses tossing midnight manes. Stalls selling dates, apricots, figs, and spices lined the road, and lush gardens filled the air with a perfume. Childre
n scurried everywhere, peddlers haggled with shoppers, and a woman in motley juggled daggers.
A statue rose in a square—a sandstone man with a crane's head, twenty feet tall. In its shadow, an old man performed with wooden puppets—one puppet of a phoenix, the other of a dragon. Treale's eyes widened. She had sewn hundreds of puppets in her youth; they were her greatest love. Yet when she approached the puppet show and stood among the children who watched it, sadness crept into her. The wooden phoenix, painted bright orange, soon slew the ebony dragon, and the children cheered. Treale lowered her head.
Even the puppets here hate us, she thought, and the silliness of her thought twisted her lips into a smile. With a sigh, she turned away from the show and moved through the crowd.
Besides, I won't find Mori watching a puppet show, Treale thought. She had seen the wyverns carry Mori south. They would have come to Irys; Treale was sure of that. Solina would want the princess of Requiem imprisoned here, in the capital, in the jewel of her empire. How many dungeons would a city this size hold? Or was Mori imprisoned in Solina's own chambers, kept in a cage like some trophy pet?
She would start by searching for the city prisons, Treale decided; it seemed the most likely place to look. She was not sure how she would enter those prisons; she would have to figure that part out next.
She approached a man hawking apricots from a cart. She was about to launch into a story of an imprisoned brother, then ask for direction to the dungeon. Before she could speak, however, great horns blew across the city, a peal that hushed the crowds.
Treale felt like an icy snake was crawling down her back. She did not like this sound; it was a keen like columns crashing, like a fallen race crying from graves, the sound her heart had made when Nova Vita fell. Around her, the people stood hushed for a moment, then roared to the sky. Their faces changed; anger and fear suffused them, and they pounded the air and chanted to the Sun God. Thousands began to move down the streets, catching Treale in their flow; she could not help but move with them.
The crowds swept forward, a simmering sea, and pulled Treale along the cobbled street. They passed under a great archway embossed with golden suns; it was large enough for three dragons to fly through abreast. Beyond the archway, the crowd swept Treale into a great square where myriads roared.
Treale stood in the throng, head spinning and breath panting. The sun beat overhead. She had never seen a square so large; it seemed larger than all of Nova Vita. She could not guess how many people filled it; they were an ocean of rage, a hundred thousand strong or stronger. A temple rose to her right, columns soaring and topped with platinum. Before her, across the square, rose a palace; it was easily the largest building Treale had ever seen, dwarfing even the fallen halls of Requiem. Its towers scratched the sky. Faceless statues guarded its doors, standing above a staircase with hundreds of steps. Soldiers surrounded the square and covered the roofs of the buildings; some sat upon wyverns, whips in their hands. Above in the sky, phoenixes circled the sun, screeching.
Treale wanted to flee this place. She wanted to shift into a dragon and fly from here, fly as fast and far as she could. Something was happening here, something dark and horrible, something she desperately wanted to escape. The square felt like a boiling pot about to overflow. And yet she stood among the crowd, hood pulled low.
If you shift now, you die, she told herself. A thousand wyverns surround this square, and phoenixes fly above. Stay. Hide. Whatever happens in this square, you must live.
The palace doors ahead, towering things of gold and ivory, began to creak open. The crowd roared even louder. The faces of the people swam around her, red and howling and twisted with rage. Fists pounded the air. Several people were climbing the base of a great statue of Queen Solina; Treale elbowed her way toward them, climbed onto the statue's pedestal between howling youths, and stared ahead.
When the temple doors were opened, the real Queen Solina emerged.
The crowd roared to the sun. Solina raised her arms, a deity of platinum. Soldiers in gilded armor flanked her. The procession marched across the palace's dais, stood above the stairway, and looked down upon the city. One of the soldiers held a leashed, haggard creature, perhaps a beaten dog. As the crowds roared, the soldiers lifted the creature and chained it between the towering, faceless statues that flanked the palace doors.
"Behold the weredragon!" shouted Queen Solina. "Behold our victory! We will never fall!"
All around Treale, the people of Tiranor pounded their fists and roared the call. "We will never fall!"
Treale stared, eyes dampening. This was no chained animal, no creature.
It was Mori.
Memories floated around Treale: childhood summers in Nova Vita when she played with Mori in the palace gardens; the royal family visiting Oldnale Manor in winters, and Mori sleeping at Treale's side in the great oak bed upstairs; stargazing with Mori and her brothers on autumn nights, then sneaking away from the boys to whisper of future husbands, wedding gowns, and all the other dreams of youth. And now… now this: Treale hidden in a cloak among a crowd of rage, and Mori in chains and rags, her skin sallow and lacerated.
"I will save you, Mori," Treale whispered as the crowd roared. Her knees shook. Her belly roiled. She dug her fingernails into her palms. "I swear to you, I will save you."
As the phoenixes circled above the square, leaving wakes of flame, Solina cried to the sky. The queen appeared to be in rapture, head tossed back and arms raised. Her raiment of gold and platinum shone upon her, reflecting the sun and fire.
"The weredragons burned your homes!" she cried, and the crowds roared. "They slew your sons and brothers and fathers, brave men of Tiranor who flew to banish their darkness. But we defeated them! We toppled their courts and we captured their vile princess. Tiranor lives, Tiranor grows strong, Tiranor lights the world!"
The crowd chanted, fists pounding the air. "We will never fall! Hail the Sun God! We will never fall!"
"Hail the Sun God!" cried Queen Solina. "Today is the Day of Sun's Glory. Today the light of our lord banishes the night." She turned to her guards. "Let the reptile taste our glory."
The soldiers raised whips.
Treale winced and her heart wrenched. "No…"
The whips fell and Mori screamed.
"No!" Treale cried, but nobody heard her; the crowd shouted around her.
The whips fell again, and Treale bit her lip and looked aside. Her fists trembled. Tears ran down her cheeks. She wanted to shift, to turn into a dragon, to fly to Mori and save her. Yet how could she? How could she fly with a thousand wyverns around her, with phoenixes covering the sky?
"Please," she whispered, as if Solina could hear her across the crowd. The whips fell again and again, and Mori finally stopped screaming. Her chin fell to her chest, and she hung limp in her chains.
The crowd roared as the soldiers dragged the unconscious princess back into the temple. Treale shook and wanted to turn away, wanted to run, wanted to fly, wanted to race toward the temple and leap in after Mori. She tried to elbow her way forward, but the crowd was too thick, suffocating her. She could barely breathe. Her limbs trembled, and she'd have fallen were the people not pressed against her.
"See how the weredragons suffer for their crimes!" Solina shouted, arms raised. "See how the cruel scream in pain! They tried to kill us. They tried to extinguish the sun itself with their darkness. We shall beat the creature every Day of Sun's Glory! We will find their king, who hides like a coward in the wilderness, and flay him for the sun to burn his naked flesh." As the crowds roared, Solina raised her hand high in salute, and the sun itself seemed to glow within it, a beacon of her might. "Tiranor is strong, and Requiem's last children will die under our heel!"
Treale panted, belly roiling and eyes stinging, as Solina vanished back into her temple. The doors of gold and ivory closed, sealing the queen, her men, and Mori within. As the crowd began to disperse, growling about the evil of the weredragons, Treale stood in place. She lowered her h
ead, fists clenched at her sides. She tasted a tear on her lips.
"I'm sorry, Mori," she whispered. "I'm so sorry I left you, that I flew from battle, that I abandoned you." She trembled, remembering seeing the fall of Nova Vita… and fleeing it. "I will never find absolution from my shame, Mori, but I will save you. I promise you."
She stood in the square until the sun set and all but a few stragglers remained. Then Treale turned, walked in silence, and entered an alley between shops and taverns. The sun fell and darkness spread. Between the roofs of the buildings, Treale saw the Draco constellation, the stars of her home, and they soothed her. She missed her parents and her brothers so badly; they lay dead. She missed her king Elethor; she did not know if he too had fallen. She missed her home, Oldnale Manor; it had burned to the ground.
But Mori still lives. A last light shines. I am not alone.
Treale curled up in a shadowy corner, placed her head against her knees, and quietly wept.
NEMES
As the rain fell and the sun set, Nemes was digging a grave.
He was not a gravedigger; Requiem had employed three, and they had fallen in the war. Nor was he strong; his arms had always been thin, and others of the camp—surviving soldiers—were better suited for manual labor. But Nemes had volunteered to bury the tortured spy, for he had always loved three things above all else: solitude, corpses, and Lady Lyana.
"I have two here with me," he said softly among the trees, shoveling dirt. The camp lay far behind, and the dead spy stank beside him. "And if my Lord Legion wills, I will have the third soon enough."
He tightened his pale, bony fingers around the shovel's shaft. In the fading light, his flesh seemed gray to him, rubbery and old despite his youth; he was not yet thirty. Strands of his hair hung over his eyes, prematurely silvered—the hair of an old man. But Lyana was fair. Lyana's skin was smooth and pale like the silks Nemes's mother would dream of owning. Lyana would regret her words to him; Nemes vowed that. They would all regret how they'd hurt him; he swore that to the rain, to the worms, and to the body rotting beside him.
A Night of Dragon Wings (Dragonlore, Book 3) Page 4
