Light and song and ringing flowed across her.
Her magic tore free like a bandage from a wound.
She lay in human form, the nephilim dwarfing her. She gripped her sword. She drew a foot of steel. She screamed and claws grabbed her, tightened around her like a girdle of bone, and lifted her.
She screamed and kicked and spat, tried to shift again, and shouted every curse she knew. She was still screaming when they shoved a sack over her head, and wings flapped, and her legs kicked in midair. Wind whipped her, her head spun, and terror pulsed in her chest.
ELETHOR
Legion's claws wrapped around Elethor's chest, pinning his arms down and nearly cracking his ribs. Elethor could barely breathe, barely make a sound. His wounds burned; so many cuts and bruises and welts covered him, he felt like a slab of beaten meat. He tried to shift but could hardly muster the power to stay conscious.
"Yesss," Legion hissed. The nephil was carrying him down a dark hall, his clawed feet clattering. "Yessss, struggle, weredragon. I like it when you struggle."
The demon's tongue dipped to lick Elethor's cheek. Elethor grunted and closed his eyes. The beast's head rose above his own—the creature stood thrice his height—and his jaws leaked drool and pus that stank of corpses.
"Soli—" Elethor began, but Legion squeezed his claws tighter, suffocating his voice.
The queen walked ahead, not turning back to regard him. She held a torch, lighting walls covered in faded murals depicting the Ancients battling serpents and raising fire in their palms. As they moved down the hall, Elethor shut his eyes and thought of Treale.
Fly to our starlit halls, daughter of Requiem, he thought. Await me there among the souls or our fallen. You sing now among them.
Solina led them through many halls, stairways, and doors, until finally she brought them to a towering archway whose keystone sported engravings of lions. Solina walked through the archway, and Legion—carrying Elethor in his grip—followed.
They entered a hall the size of a palace, easily the largest chamber Elethor had seen in this mountain. He thought that the fallen courts of Requiem could fit into this chamber with room to fly around them. Limestone columns rose from shadow to support a wide, domed ceiling like a stone sky. In the center of the chamber, a tower rose from a pit; a bridge led from the doorway to the tower top.
Solina took several steps onto the bridge, turned around, and smiled at Elethor.
"Welcome," she said, "to the Hall of Memory. Legion! Carry him onto the bridge. Let him see what lurks below."
She smiled crookedly, turned her back toward them, and continued walking across the bridge.
Elethor snarled and struggled against Legion's claws, but they squeezed further, and he was so tired, so hurt, his skull too tight, his chest aching. He wanted to scream, to break free, to lunge at Solina and kill her. And yet he could barely keep her in focus. He had lost too much blood, had fought too much, hurt too much.
Legion began to walk along the bridge, his claws clattering and scraping again the stone. Clanking, squealing, and screeches rose from the pit below, and a stench wafted so powerfully Elethor choked and gagged. Legion laughed—a sound like snapping bones—and held Elethor over the pit.
His breath left him.
Elethor closed his eyes.
He knew then: There was no hope. Not for him and not for his people fighting across the desert.
This flight south was folly. This was all in vain.
The spawn of nephilim filled the pit below the bridge, spreading all around the tower. Their eyes burned red. Their claws and teeth dug at one another's flesh, feeding and licking and sucking blood. They screeched to see Elethor hanging above them. They leaped and tried to claw at him, nearly reaching his feet. Countless filled this place, a writhing mass like a nest of maggots.
"Do you like them, Elethor?" Solina cried ahead, voice echoing. "My servant Legion spawned them himself. A million writhe below you, growing larger. The strong, you see—they feed upon the weak. They climb the mass. They will soon be large enough to fly and cover the world." She looked over her shoulder, and her eyes softened in mock concern. "I am quite afraid, my dear Elethor, that they will soon feed upon the rest of your weredragons."
Then she laughed, turned back toward the tower, and kept walking across the bridge.
Legion hissed and his drool sprayed. He followed, carrying Elethor farther along. As they walked, the nephil spawn leaped at the bridge, clawed at its edges, then fell back into the pit. Their veined wings beat uselessly, still too brittle for flight. They screeched and licked their maws.
"Weredragon blood!" they cried, voices shrill like possessed children. "Let us eat his organs!"
They walked for what seemed the length of cities before the bridge reached the tower. Upon the tower top lay the still, silvery surface of a pool.
It's some kind of well, Elethor realized. A towering one rising from the demon pit.
Solina stepped onto the pool's rim, placed one foot into the water, and looked over her shoulder. Her eyes again softened, but this time Elethor saw no mockery in them, only old sadness like a lone doll upon a shelf in an abandoned home.
"It's time, Elethor," she said. "It's time to go home."
She stepped into the well, moving deeper and deeper down hidden stairs until her head disappeared underwater.
Legion hissed and chuckled. With a screech and spray of rot, he tossed Elethor forward.
Elethor tumbled and crashed into the water.
Silver streams flowed across him. His blood seeped and rose through the water like red ghosts. He sank. He closed his eyes. He thought of Lyana's green eyes and hands in his, clung to her memory, and waited to die.
Warmth fell upon him.
Sunlight played against his closed eyelids.
His body felt…
Whole, he thought. Healed. Young.
His pains vanished like a nightmare fleeing the dawn. He could not remember feeling so nourished, healthy, and strong in years. Softness caressed him; he lay in a plush, warm bed.
He opened his eyes and inhaled softly.
My bed, he thought. His eyes watered. My bed at home. In Requiem.
Not the cold, hard bed in Requiem's palace, a great thing of dark oak the kings of Requiem slept in. No—this was his bed, the one he had built himself for his small home upon the hill.
He was in that home now. A tear streamed down his cheek. He had not seen this place in two years—not since the phoenixes had burned it. He sat up and looked around, eyes stinging and breath shaking.
Shelves lined the walls, brimming with leather-bound books, geodes, rolled-up maps, and wooden figurines he had whittled. Larger sculptures of marble stood upon the floor: Solina in her youth, nude and beautiful as sunlight over the forest. Outside the windows—stars, how could this be?—he saw Requiem. Not Requiem as he knew her now, burnt and fallen and crawling with beasts. This was the Requiem of his youth. It was spring, and the sky was blue, and dragons glided outside—not haggard survivors, but gleaming dragons of blue, gold, and green.
"I'm home," he whispered.
He left the bed and found that he wore a green tunic with a silver collar—stars, he remembered this tunic!—and that his body was younger, slimmer, not scarred from war. He looked at his shoulder where, a year ago, wyvern acid had burned him; the flesh was unblemished. He touched his cheeks and found them smooth, his beard gone.
Are these the halls of afterlife? he wondered. He had always imagined them like glittering columns and starlit halls. This felt more like a memory come alive—a memory of youth when everything was bright, fresh, and pure in the world.
He moved through his room, laughing softly, disbelieving. He ran his fingers over his cherrywood table. He lifted the statuette of a turtle, the one he had carved for Solina. He looked out the windows to see Nova Vita roll across the hills, bright in the spring sun, her birches rustling.
This is Nova Vita years ago, he realized. The potter shop belo
w the hill was only being built now. The cypresses outside his window were still young.
It's ten years ago, he thought. Maybe nine. And I'm only eighteen here, a mere youth and prince, not a haunted, scarred king.
Under scrolls and books, he found his handheld mirror and looked upon his reflection. His cheeks were softer. His brown eyes had seen less pain. No scar rifted his face; that face was young, thoughtful, and pale.
"Solina always did say I was too pale," he mumbled.
"You always were," came her voice from behind him.
He turned to see her at the doorway, and his breath left him.
She stood barefoot, leaning against the doorframe, and gave him a crooked smile. She wore one of his old tunics. It was loose around her, and she was naked beneath it; he could see the golden smoothness of her legs and the tops of her breasts. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders, rivers of platinum like water under moonlight. She was young here in this memory, closer to twenty than thirty, and her face glowed with youth, and her blue eyes stared at him with all the temptation and coyness of forbidden young love.
She's beautiful, he thought. This was not Queen Solina, the cruel tyrant of Tiranor, the mad woman she had become. No. This was his Solina, the young Solina he had loved, the Solina he had pined for, the Solina she had been. This was the woman who had filled his bed for years, then his dreams for years after that. This was Solina of sunlight, of stolen kisses, of maddening love and sex and flame.
"Solina?" he whispered.
"I am here, Elethor," she said. She walked toward him, took his hands, and smiled. "It's me, El. It's me. Do you remember?"
Her hands were soft and warm. He held them and looked at her, and looked around, and his eyes dampened again.
"I remember. Solina, how—"
She placed a finger against his lips.
"Does it matter?" she whispered. Her smile left her, and her lips trembled, and she embraced him. She clung to him desperately, and her fingers pressed against his shoulders. "Hold me, Elethor. Hold me tight."
He held her. They stood like this for long moments, and her tears wet his shoulder. He caressed her hair, and suddenly he was no longer King Elethor of Requiem, a jaded warrior. That man faded away, and he was Prince Elethor again, eighteen years old and caught in her light, and this was real. This was him again. This was home, this was youth, and the world was bright and no darkness could fill it.
"How can this be, Solina?"
She looked at him. A tremulous smile found her lips, and she touched his cheek.
"I made this place for us," she said. "Do you remember this day? It's the day your father, brother, Lyana, and all the others flew east for some fair. You and I remained here in Nova Vita—no duties, no dinners, no obligations, just… us. Just a perfect day of sunlight and being lazy and…" She lowered her eyes shyly. "And making love." She looked back up at him, her eyes damp. "It was our day. A perfect day. It was the best day of my life, El—the best one ever. It is the best day. We can relive this day now! Again and again forever, and… and the others will never come back. There will never be war here, or pain, or exile, or any of those bad things. Just you and me, young forever, in love forever. Our perfect day."
He pulled away from her, walked to the window, and looked outside upon the hills of birches and cypresses. Above in the sky, the dragons glided. Solina came to stand beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Where are we?" he asked.
"In Requie—"
He turned toward her. "Solina, where are we?"
She looked aside, eyes pained. "Does it matter, El? Does it matter where this place is? It's real to me. It's real to you." She looked back at him, tears trembling in her eyes. "Don't you remember?"
He placed his hands upon the windowsill, lowered his head, and understood. He spoke softly.
"We're still in Tiranor. We're in the bowels of the mountain, and around us the nephilim spawn, and… this is some… some illusion of the water. Of the pool we entered." He grabbed her arm. "Isn't it, Solina?"
"So what if it is!" Her face flushed. "So what, Elethor? Who cares what lies out there?" She swept her arm around. "This is what matters. This place, not anything else. These books, and statues, and… and, Elethor, the turtle you carved me. You remember the turtle." She pressed herself against him and tried to kiss him. "I love you, Elethor, and that is what matters. That is all that matters. And you love me too. Here you do. Here you've always loved me."
He sighed and lowered his head. "It's not real, Solina."
"My memory is real. This day existed, El. It was real years ago; it's real again, real enough. It was my best day. Have you forgotten it?"
He looked around him, seeing his books, his sculptures, his bed. He looked at Solina—his love.
"I remember," he said softly. "It was my best day too."
Tears streamed down her cheeks and she embraced him. They stood together by the window, holding each other close.
"Then let us stay here," she said. "Your city that you loved still stands here. The people whom you loved still live. I will leave the Memory Pool sometimes—to govern my empire, to deal with the dirt, blood, and cruelty of the world. You can wait for me here, and read your books, and sculpt your statues. I will return to you every day. We will make love every night. Like this forever—young and happy. Out there, in the world, we are killers, Elethor. I killed so many; you did too. Our bodies are scarred there, our souls cold and drenched with blood. But not here. Here we are young, and good, and pure of heart." She touched his cheek. "It's finally over, El. All the pain. My exile. Our war. It's over now. The pain is gone, and nothing but joy and light remain."
He looked at her young, earnest face, unblemished by the scars of war. Her skin was smooth and supple, a soft golden hue, and freckles covered her nose. Her eyes were deep blue, her lips full and pink, her hair so soft in his hands.
Is this not all I ever wanted? he thought. Is this not what I spent years yearning for? Is this not perfection, eternal bliss?
He breathed deeply, and his chest ached. He had it here—all he had desired! He could spend the rest of his life in his home with the woman he loved, the woman who had claimed his soul and still clutched it, the woman who—
The woman who slaughtered children in our tunnels, a voice whispered inside him. The woman who slew my father and brother. The woman who destroyed my kingdom and butchered my people.
He thought of Lyana, his wife. Here, a decade ago, he hated Lyana—an imperious youth who would lecture him about this or that until he wanted to strangle her. And he thought of Lyana the woman, his wife, a warrior who had fought at his side, loved him, and flown through fire and death with him—a woman braver than any he had known, a woman of a heart pure and strong like steel forged in dragonfire, of soft light and goodness and eternal sadness, a woman who would always fly by his side.
I loved Solina in my foolish youth, he thought. But I walked through the Abyss with Lyana, and I loved her as a man, and I fought with her for all that we believe in, for all that our people hoped and killed and died for. Solina was a flame, a fire that had lit his youth, flickered bright, and spread into a wildfire that burned him. But Lyana was no flame—she was starlight, blinding in the darkness, guiding him home.
"And what of those who still live?" he said, voice suddenly hoarse. "What of Lyana, my sister, and the others?"
Something dark crossed Solina's eyes. Her jaw tightened. She looked aside and spoke tautly.
"They will live," she said. "I will not kill them. I will not hunt them. You have my word, Elethor. I vow to you." She looked back at him and again took his hands. "If you remain here with me—with your Solina, with your love—I won't harm any more of your people. Those who still live can leave this land, fly into exile, and find whatever life they still can."
He tore himself away from her. He walked to the back of the room where his statues stood. He faced them: likenesses of Solina carved in marble. A sigh ran through him, and he cl
osed his eyes.
"No," he said softly. "No, Solina. You say we are young here and pure. Are we pure, Solina? What defines our evil—our actions or our hearts? You slew my family. You butchered my people. You—"
"Not me, Elethor! Not this me. Not this Solina here." She walked toward him and grabbed his arm. "Not this Solina who stands unscarred before you."
She breathed heavily, chest rising and falling, and she was beautiful, and young, and temptation itself barefoot in dawn's light.
"That evil is inside you," he said. "It always was; I was blind to it. I saw your beauty. I felt your kisses. I ignored the cruelty of your heart. Your hands slew my family years from now. Your heart drove those hands; it has always beaten inside you. I will not stay with you here. I will not be part of this mockery, this fake dream, this—"
She slapped him—a slap so hard he sucked in breath and saw stars.
"You will!" she hissed between clenched teeth. Her eyes blazed. "You will stay with me here, or she will die, Elethor. She will die in pain. I will kill her." She spun toward the doorway and screamed. "Legion! Bring the whore!"
The door to Elethor's chamber creaked open.
The nephil's head thrust inside, nearly as tall as a man.
Elethor growled and instinctively reached for his sword, only to find it missing. The sight of this rotted, bloody creature here, in perfect old Requiem, spun his head. Legion grinned, and his fangs shone, and his drool pooled on the floor. Dried blood encrusted the spikes and horns across his head, his halo crackled, and worms crawled inside his left eye.
Like a scuttling insect, Legion crawled into the chamber—even crouched, he barely fit through the door. Rot dripped from him to seep across the floor, and his stench swirled, thick as moldy stew in the air.
Then Elethor saw what Legion clutched to his belly, and he let out a hoarse cry.
Holding her close against him, Legion carried a bloodied, bruised Lyana.
"Lyana!" Elethor shouted and made to grab her, but Solina held him back.
A Night of Dragon Wings (Dragonlore, Book 3) Page 28
