No, not even a city; an entire kingdom, she thought. She walked through chambers where thousands of sarcophagi rose, tombs for ancient kings and warriors. She moved deeper and deeper into the mountain. She thought that the sun outside must have set. She thought that she could walk here for days—for years.
Finally, after what seemed like eras of wandering, a shriek shattered the silence.
Solina froze.
The scream was mournful, echoing, a cry like a dying star. It rolled through the palace, torn in agony, a call of ancient pain, of lingering torment, of fallen ones begging for revenge. She had heard such screams in Requiem when toppling her halls. She herself had screamed that way when the weredragons murdered her child.
Now the nephilim screamed, and Solina smiled.
"I am coming to you, my children," she whispered.
The scream died and echoed. A hundred screams then rose together, a chorus of screeches, groans, and wails. The palace reverberated. Dust rained as bricks shifted. A column cracked.
"I come to you, fallen children!" Solina shouted.
Her voice echoed down dark halls. She walked under vaulted ceilings, her light shining in the dark. The screams rose.
"Free us!" they screeched.
"The pain! End the pain!" they cried.
"Enough, enough!" they howled. "The pain must end!"
Solina raised her arms as she walked, casting her light upon halls as large as her entire palace in Irys. A grin spread across her face. She followed the screams through the darkness.
"I have the key, twisted ones!" she called. "Your savior comes to you!"
The screams swirled. The creatures wept and laughed and roared and shrieked.
"Savior! Savior!"
"We will crush bones, we will drink blood!"
"Legion will lead! Legion will kill!"
The Palace of Whispers trembled around her. A statue of a priest fell and shattered. Cracks spread along the ceiling. The screams of the nephilim raced like demons through the halls, so loud Solina could barely hear her own cries.
"Ten thousand years you languished here!" she shouted. "Today I free you, Fallen Ones. Today you will drink the blood of the world that tortured you!"
The palace echoed and shook with their cries.
She descended a coiling staircase. The screams rained against her. She crossed a dark hall lined with statues. The voices wept and begged. She reached an iron door that shone a deep gray; it towered taller than dragons. The screams crashed like falling empires.
"I have come, nephilim!" she shouted and laughed. "I come to free you!"
Red light and shadows scurried around the door. Claws reached under the doorframe, scratching at the iron. Blood dripped through the keyhole and between the hinges.
"Free us, free us!" they begged.
"End the pain!"
"End the hunger!"
Solina drew the key from her belt. It thrummed and gleamed in her hand, so hot it nearly burned her. A force was tugging it toward the lock; Solina barely kept it in her hand.
"I am Solina Pheobus!" she howled above the screams. "I am Queen of Tiranor! I am the Destroyer of Requiem! I free you, nephilim. You will follow my light to flesh and bone and blood!"
The red light streamed across her. Her key flared like a rising sun. Screaming and laughing, Solina placed the key into the lock.
She twisted.
Light and blood and sound exploded.
The Iron Door blazed like sunrise, then shattered into a million shards. Howls and stench rose. Shadows leaped. From the darkness, the nephilim swarmed.
Solina raised her arms above her, dwarfed by the giants, but shining bright with the light of her lord.
"Serve me, nephilim! I am Solina! I free you."
They spilled into the hall, weeping and shouting and swirling. They stood fifteen feet tall, giants of shriveled flesh, patches of scales, and diseased eyes. Their fangs tore at the walls. Their claws slashed. Their great wings, wide as the wings of dragons, beat the air. Their armor was rusted, their blades chipped, their chain mail hanging in shreds, yet still Solina knew: This was the greatest army the world had seen.
"We rise!" one shouted and wept tears of blood.
"We walk again!" cried another, a bloated beast with lines of teeth like stitches crossing its face.
They kept spilling from their prison, filling the halls, swarming across the caverns. A cry rose among them, a cry shriller and louder than all others, a screech like boiling oceans.
"Bow before Queen Solina!" The voice echoed. "I am Legion! I foresaw the savior. Bow before the Queen of Light!"
All around, the nephilim fell to their knees, wept, clawed the air, and screamed. They trembled. They kissed the floor.
"Hail Solina!" they cried. "Hail the prophet Legion! We rise!"
From the shadows of the prison, a great nephil emerged, taller than the others, reeking and rotten. He was an androgynous beast, a thing of ruin, but Solina deemed him male. A halo of fire burned around his brow; he alone among the beasts bore this crown. Solina knew this one from the old, whispered tales. He was Legion, spawn of a mortal priestess and a demon king—ruler of the nephilim.
Beneath his burning halo, strands of yellow hair dangled from his scarred head, caked with blood. Milky-white eyes burned in his face between oozing boils. He had no nose, only two slits for nostrils. Drool, blood, and sharp teeth filled his maw. His skin was rotten and torn, but muscles shone and rippled beneath it. His claws were long as swords and jagged black. Rust covered his armor and a great blade, taller than two men, hung at his side. He howled to the ceiling, arms raised and drool spraying.
"Hail Solina!" he cried. "I am Legion. I am Leader. I am Prophet. I serve you, Golden Queen! We are nephilim; we were fallen. We rise! We rise!"
They swarmed through the palace. They carried Solina upon their shoulders. They flapped wings, and clawed at walls, and shattered columns, and wept and praised her name. They flew to daylight. They flowed from the palace like a swarm of wasps from a nest. They filled the desert sky and howled at the sun. The land shook beneath them, the palace trembled, and the sand burned.
"Rise, nephilim!" cried Solina, caught in the storm of them, flying upon their glory. "Fill the world with your might! I will lead you to food. I will lead you to dragon bones and scales and blood to drink. Fly, nephilim! Fly north, fly to Requiem, and you will feast!"
The roared and sang and wept.
They flew.
Solina laughed and raised her arms and the sunlight bathed her.
MORI
She walked upon marble tiles, fallen birch leaves crunching underfoot and scuttling before her like orange mice. Marble columns rose around her, glowing like moonlight, and beyond them Mori saw the forests roll across hills, kindled red and gold and yellow with fall. She walked in Nova Vita, she thought, but she saw no houses, no snaking streets or smithies or forts, only mist, birches, and gliding leaves.
"Requiem," Mori whispered. Tears stung her eyes at the purity of her home.
These were the courts of Requiem. Mori knew these marble tiles, these columns, and the Oak Throne which stood before her in a beam of light. Here had her father ruled, and Elethor after him, yet Mori heard no flap of dragon wings beyond the columns, no sounds of mothers calling for children, no clank of armor or song of harps. She heard only the crunch of leaves, the distant song of birds, and the wind through the trees. The marble seemed purer than Mori had ever seen it; no scratches marred the floor or columns, and the letters engraved into them—spelling old prayers of Requiem—appeared crisp as if freshly chiseled.
Mori kept walking, approaching the beam of light where the Oak Throne rose upon a dais. Her breath caught. A figure stood before the throne! Though daylight shone through the mist, strands of starlight seemed to cloak the figure ahead. Mori clutched her luck finger and kept walking, and the figure of light descended from the dais and moved toward her.
When the figure drew nearer, emerging from the li
ght, Mori saw a woman in golden armor, her hair a cascade of blond curls. Mori recognized the sword that hung from her side, its hilt jeweled and its scabbard filigreed with silver leaves; this was Stella Lumen, the sword Mori's father had borne, the sword Solina had broken.
"Queen Gloriae's sword," she whispered.
In her childhood, Mori had spent many hours praying in Gloriae's Tomb to the great marble statue of Requiem's legendary queen. Gloriae had defeated Dies Irae, the tyrant. Gloriae had raised Requiem from ruin and rebuilt this temple. Gloriae was her ancestor, the heroine of her childhood. Gloriae—not a statue or a legend from scrolls, but a woman of flesh and blood—now stood before her.
Mori knelt.
"My queen," she whispered.
Then she knew: This was not Requiem, or at least, not the Requiem she had known.
I died in the darkness of Solina's dungeon, she thought. My body hangs from chains underground. My soul has risen to the starlit halls of my ancestors, and now I kneel before the soul of my great queen.
She felt a hand on her shoulder, soft and warm as spring's morning light. Mori rose and stood before her queen, the woman who had founded Nova Vita three hundred years ago. Gloriae's eyes were green as deep forests, and her face was pale.
"Fly," the queen said.
Mori lowered her head. "I cannot."
Gloriae placed a finger under Mori's chin and lifted it. Her face was blank, the face of a statue, but an urgency filled her eyes.
"Fly," she whispered.
Mori looked up, expecting to see the vaulted ceiling she had always known. Instead she saw the sky awhirl with white clouds, a painting all in blue and white. A few of the columns were missing their capitals, and Mori realized: These were not the starlit halls of afterlife after all. This was the court of Requiem long ago, back when Queen Gloriae was rebuilding it, before the roof had even been raised. The sky of Requiem still shone upon the new Oak Throne. This was not her afterlife; this was a whisper of her past.
Mori turned to the east, looked between the birches, and saw two figures cloaked in light. Here were the other heroes of the great war, the founders of Nova Vita: Agnus Dei, clad in green, a woman of black curls and kind brown eyes; and Kyrie Eleison, Prince of Requiem, a young man of yellow hair and winking eyes, Mori's ancestor. They stood in the starlight, smiling softly upon her, waiting for her.
We will fly together through starlit halls, their voices whispered in her mind. But not this day. Your tale does not end here.
"Fly," Gloriae said again, and the queen held Mori's hands, sending warmth and love through her. "Become the dragon. You bear the golden scales like I do, a color of royalty and dawn. Become the golden dragon and fly. Find our sky. Find the light of stars in the dark."
Mori tried to shift here in the temple, to soar toward the sky, but pain blazed around her wrists and ankles, and her breath rattled in her lungs. She was so weak. She was so hungry, so hurt.
"I can't," she whispered. "I am chained. Iron binds me."
"And I wear steel and gold," said the queen, gesturing at her armor, "and I bear Stella Lumen, a shard of metal and light, the sword of my mother Queen Lacrimosa. And yet I can shift."
Starlight cascaded, the song of harps played, and the woman of golden curls was gone; instead a golden dragon stood before Mori, eyes green and sad.
A golden dragon, Mori thought. Like me.
"But… your armor is a part of you," Mori said, standing small and thin before the great golden beast. "I can shift with my gown too, and with a good book that I love, if I hold it close to my breast. But I could never shift with armor, nor a sword, not like Lyana can." She placed her hand upon the golden dragon's head. "You are a great warrior, Gloriae! You fought the armies of Dies Irae himself and slew so many. You can shift encased in steel; I cannot."
Yet why could Lyana shift in armor? Mori wondered. She had seen the knight shift with sword, shield, and helm; they all melted into her dragon form, then reappeared when Lyana became human again. Yet Mori had seen the knight once try to shift while holding a harp, a musical instrument she had never mastered; Lyana had become the blue dragon, and the harp had clattered to the floor.
Gloriae nodded, as if she could read Mori's thoughts.
"We can shift," the golden dragon said, "with what is ours, with what is us. My armor is a part of me, a steel skin. A book is a part of you, a piece of your soul upon parchment."
Mori stood in the court of Requiem, clad in a white gown, yet when she raised her wrists, the skin was red and raw; she could feel the chains around them, even here in this hall of light and ghosts.
"Will these chains be a part of me?" she whispered.
With silver light, Gloriae returned to human form. Softly the queen embraced Mori; her armor was cold, but her hair and arms were warm.
"We are part of you," Gloriae whispered into her ear. "We are with you. Always, daughter of Requiem. We fly with you even in your darkest hours. Surrender to the shackles. Let these chains become like arms of steel. They imprison you. They will let you fly."
The queen kissed Mori's forehead, lips warm and soft, and white light flowed, and for a moment Mori saw nothing but the glow of stars.
When the light cleared, she saw the dungeon again: the bloody floor, the brick walls, and the door before her. Once more she sat here in shadow, her arms shackled to the wall behind her, her ankles chained to the floor.
"Was it a dream?" she whispered, throat dry and voice raspy. Had she truly seen the spirit of Queen Gloriae and the great Kyrie Eleison and Agnus Dei? Had she seen a light from the starlit halls or a light from the past?
Mori lowered her head; it felt too heavy to hold up. Her stomach clenched, her back blazed with pain, and her eyes stung. She missed that hall of marble. She missed those birches. All lay burnt now, all was fallen.
We are with you, their voices whispered in the darkness, and Mori thought she could feel the warmth of starlight. Always, daughter of Requiem. We fly with you even in your darkest hours.
Mori closed her eyes, tightened her lips, and tried to shift.
Pain racked her body. She trembled. Golden scales began to appear across her. Her limbs began to grow, and claws sprouted from her fingers. Wings unfurled from her back. She could almost imagine the sky of Requiem, all blue and white and cold around her.
The chains bit deep, shoving Mori back into human form.
She sat trembling, head lowered, and coughed and blinked and gasped for breath. She could not stop shaking, and she tasted blood on her lips. Her eyes stung.
"I can't do it," she whispered. "I'm sorry, Gloriae. I want to fly with you. I want to go home."
She shook for long moments, ravaged with pain and weakness. Her skin felt hot; perhaps she was feverish. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe like Mother Adia had taught her: a slow breath in, a moment of healing, a slow breath out. She breathed again and again, letting the air—even the fetid air of this dungeon—flow through her body, soothe her trembling, and ease her pain. She imagined that she breathed the air over Requiem, the sky of her youth, a sky she vowed to find again.
She took one more great breath, filling her lungs, and tried to shift again.
She could see the sky. Clouds trailed across blue fields. Dragons flew there, hundreds of them—blue, green, gold, and a dozen other colors, all undulating on the wind, smoke trailing from their nostrils, wings gliding. She felt her own wings move behind her, and she raised her head, ready to soar.
Once more, the chains bit, and her magic fizzled.
She sat chained and trembling.
She thought of her books from the library of Requiem—books of adventures about brave knights, beautiful maidens, and dragons who flew to distant lands of wonder. She thought of her gowns, her harp, her dolls—the things she could always shift with, draw into herself, extensions of her body and soul.
She thought of these chains, things of cold metal, of pain. They imprison you. They will let you fly.
How long
had she lingered here in the dungeon, shackled, wasting away? Several moons? Several years? These chains were parts of her now; she could barely remember a time without them.
They've become extensions of my arms. They've become like steel wings. They are part of me.
She tried to imagine that she'd been born shackled, that she would live and grow old and die in these chains. They were as parts of her as her clothes, as her old books, as her very bones.
They are me. They will shift into me, and I will take these irons into myself.
With a deep breath, she mustered her magic.
Wings thudded from her back.
Scales clanked across her.
With a pain like thrusting daggers, the chains flowed into her body.
Mori screamed.
The walls cracked. Her body ballooned and her head hit the ceiling. The chains snapped from the walls and molded into her, driving like steel demons as her magic spun. Smoke filled her nostrils, and her tail flailed beneath her, and she was a dragon, a frail and thin golden dragon trapped in the cell, freed, unchained, fire in her maw.
Always, daughter of Requiem. We fly with you even in your darkest hours.
Mori shook. She clawed at the door, again and again, until the hinges tore. She was weak, but her claws were still sharp, and the door splintered and tore apart.
Frail and wheezing, the golden dragon tumbled out from the chamber into a hallway. Shouts echoed and boots thudded. Mori could barely raise her head. She looked up to see Sharik rushing her way, a club in his hand.
Always, daughter of Requiem. We fly with you…
She tried to blow her fire; she could muster none. She was so weak. Only sparks left her maw. Sharik reached her, and his club swung, and Mori raised her claws. The jailor howled and Mori once more was flying over Nova Vita, wyverns all around her, as crossbows fired and spears dug into her flesh.
BAYRIN
A Night of Dragon Wings (Dragonlore, Book 3) Page 10
