Dragons Lost

by Daniel Arenson

  Finally, after what seemed like miles, she reached the doors of the inner sanctum—the Holy of Holies.

  She had to pause and take another few deep breaths. All the splendor she had passed through—that had been only the skin. The true heart of what the Cured Temple meant, the very backbone of her faith, lay here beyond these oaken doors. And she knew that her mother would be waiting here. Mother was always here these days, lingering, growing older, praying . . . praying for the day they all awaited.

  Mercy tightened her lips, opened the door, and entered the holy chamber.

  As glittering and detailed as the outer chambers were, this place was simple, austere. While the outer chambers were only a hundred years old, this place was thousands of years old. Marble tiles formed the floor. Plain white bricks formed the round walls. And there, in the center of the chamber, it rose.

  King's Column.

  It rose hundreds of feet tall, passing through many stories, rising to the very top of the Temple. Mercy had to crane her head back to see its distant capital. It was ancient, but not a scratch marred it. The marble still seemed pure and smooth as if carved and polished yesterday.

  Tears stung Mercy's eyes, and she whispered under her breath—whispered the old words of this place.

  "As the leaves fall upon our marble tiles, as the breeze rustles the birches beyond our column, as the sun gilds the mountains above our halls—know, young child of the woods, you are home. You are home. Req—"

  She bit down on that last form. A forbidden word. A word she dared not utter, not even here.

  A figure, all in white, stood before the column. A white robe and hood hid the figure, and a voice rose from within the garment.

  "Yes. That was their prayer. The prayer of the weredragons. Yet no more leaves fall here; the trees have been cut down. No more sun gilds the mountains; our walls shield its light. And no more children find their home here, and never more will the old name of this place be uttered."

  Mercy nodded and lowered her head. "The name will never be uttered."

  The figure turned toward her, revealing the face of a woman. High Priestess Beatrix looked much like her daughter. Her skin was pale, and only the first hints of wrinkles tugged at her mouth and eyes. Her eyes were cold blue shards, calculating, all-seeing. She pulled her hood back, revealing her head—half was shaven, and the other half sported a white braid. A tillvine blossom formed of silver and diamonds gleamed around her neck.

  "We have a new prayer now, daughter." Beatrix raised her chin. "When all dragons fall, when all illness is cured, when all evil is cast out, the column will shatter. When the marble falls, the Spirit will descend. With every breath, with every heartbeat, with every hurt I heal, I pray for the Falling."

  "I pray for the Falling," Mercy whispered.

  Beatrix walked closer to her. Mercy was a tall woman, but Beatrix stood taller. Even in her armor, Mercy felt fragile by the High Priestess, a mere child. Her mother's eyes bored into her, emotionless, shining blue.

  "I hear fear in your voice," Beatrix said, "not the devotion the Spirit demands from his followers. Why do you cower before me like a pup?"

  Mercy bared her teeth and gripped the hilt of her sword for comfort. "There is a weredragon. A living weredragon."

  The thinnest of smiles touched Beatrix's lips. "If there were no weredragons, daughter, King's Column would not be standing before us, and the Spirit would be flowing among us, cleansing the world of all pain. Yes, I know there are living weredragons. But unless you bring me their corpses, what use are your words?"

  Mercy found that her jaw was shaking. She forced in air. "I saw one. A real one! A boy. A baker's boy. I . . . I chased him. He slew one of my men. I—"

  "And you bring me his corpse?" Beatrix asked calmly.

  Mercy lowered her head, eyes stinging. "I need more men. I left nine to seek him in the mountains, but I must fly out with a hundred more." She dared to raise her eyes and meet her mother's gaze. "I will uproot every tree, upturn every boulder, raze every hut to the ground, and I will find him."

  Beatrix turned back toward the column. For a long time she did not speak. Finally a whisper left her throat, trembling with rage. "You saw a living weredragon . . . and you let him get away."

  "He was flying too quickly, Mother! He was a vicious beast, a—"

  "And what are firedrakes?" Beatrix shouted, spinning around. The calmness was gone from her face, and her eyes blazed with mad rage. "What are they if not vicious beasts? What are you if not a vicious beast?" Beatrix struck her, driving all her strength into the blow, nearly knocking Mercy down. "I thought you were a paladin, a trained warrior of the Spirit. And a baker's boy escapes you?" Beatrix barked a mirthless laugh. "And you dare return to me, stinking of the flight, begging me to aid you?"

  Mercy wanted to shout back, to argue, to explain, but she only lowered her head. She stared at the floor. "Forgive me, Mother."

  "No." Beatrix's voice shook. "You will not do this. You will not beg for forgiveness. It is not me you must beg forgiveness from but the Spirit himself. You will chastise yourself now, daughter. You will purify yourself in my presence."

  Mercy sucked in breath. "I am no child!"

  "You are nothing but a child!" Beatrix reached into her robes and pulled out a white lightning lash. "You have sinned before the Spirit. You must purify yourself now here, in this chamber, as he and I watch."

  Mercy ground her teeth. She had not undergone this ritual for years, not since she'd been a rebellious youth. But she had no choice; Mother was High Priestess, her word as commanding as the Spirit's voice itself.

  With stiff fingers, Mercy unstrapped her breastplate and let it clang to the floor. When she took the lash from her mother, its tip blazed into crackling life, sizzling, lightning blue.

  Mercy slung it across her back, then grimaced and nearly screamed as the tip cracked against her back, hotter than fire, cutting through her tunic and burning her flesh.

  "Again," Beatrix said. "Twenty times for the Spirit. And hail his name with every blow."

  As Mercy slung the lash again and again, chastising and purifying herself, she prayed to the Spirit, but she thought of Cade. He had caused this. When she found him, he would be the one who hurt, who screamed. And she would find him. And she would break him. She swore this with every lash—to the Spirit and to herself.

  CADE

  He flew through the night, a golden dragon lost in clouds and shadows, lost in grief and memories.

  The night was dark. Rainclouds hid the moon and stars, and rain pelted Cade's scales. He had not shifted into a dragon since battling the paladins, but he dared fly now, hidden in the storm. The raindrops ran down his scaly cheeks, and the pain clutched his chest. In the clouds around him, he kept seeing it again and again: the village burning, the smoke rising, the ashes of the dead falling like snow. And always they seemed to stare from within his memory: the blackened skulls of his adoptive parents, their jaws open in silent screams.

  "You killed them, Mercy," Cade said into the rain. "You murdered them for no reason." His voice shook. "I'm going to find you someday. And I'll make you pay for your crime."

  Just as real as the grief was the worry for Eliana. She was the only family Cade had left, and he didn't even know if she was alive or dead. Had he missed her small, frail body under the rubble? Had somebody smuggled her out of the village in time? Had the paladins themselves kidnapped her? Cade was fleeing now—fleeing for safety, for answers—but he swore that he would not rest while Eliana was missing.

  "I'll find you, my sister. I swear it. I will never forget you."

  Dawn rose ahead. A haze of silver glowed upon the horizon, and soon rays of golden light broke through the clouds, celestial columns. The rain gleamed like dew on cobwebs, and the storm scattered, the warmth of the sun casting off the clouds. And there in the east, Cade saw it—the sea. The sun rose from beyond the water, casting a gleaming trail all in gold and white toward the shore. There on the coast it lay, s
ending pale towers toward the sky: the port city of Sanctus.

  "Answers," Cade whispered.

  He shook off the raindrops, glided down, and landed in a field of grass, white stones, and heather a couple of miles away from the city. He released his magic, returning to human form. When he looked down at his body, Cade sighed. He had never been in such rough shape. His burlap tunic hung in tatters, barely covering his body. That body seemed just as tattered: a hundred scrapes, bruises, and welts covered it. He had barely eaten in days, only a handful of wild hares he had hunted in dragon form. He had barely drunk. Already he looked thinner than he'd ever been, and whenever he tried to clean the dirt off his face, he only seemed to smear more across it. If he wandered into the city, he thought, he was likely to be arrested as a drunk vagrant, tossed into some prison cell, and forgotten.

  But he had to advance. What choice did he have? A life in the wilderness, hunting in the nights? Sooner or later, the paladins would catch him; he still saw firedrakes scouring the sky every hour or two. He supposed he could leave the Commonwealth entirely, travel south across the sea, and seek a home among the Horde—that gathering of motley tribes that had banded together in the lands of Terra, forming a crude army to fight the Temple. Yet if he traveled there, he'd learn nothing of Requiem, nothing of Eliana. No. He had to continue to the city of Sanctus, the eastern bastion of the Commonwealth.

  Seek the library, Domi had said.

  At the memory of Domi, Cade felt some of his anxiety fade. She was a wild beast. She served the paladins, a mount to Mercy herself. She had tied him down, preventing him from saving his family; perhaps Domi was as much to blame for their deaths as the paladins. And yet, when Domi had embraced him, had whispered "Requiem" into his ear, there had been no malice to her. She had blessed him with that word, giving him a precious gift, a holy prayer to cling to.

  "Requiem," he whispered here in the field. He raised his chin. He would do as Domi had said. He would seek the library. He would find what this word meant.

  Belly rumbling and tongue parched, he walked toward the city. As he drew closer, his eyes widened, and some of his hunger and grief faded under the sense of wonder.

  "By the Spirit," he whispered.

  He had never seen a settlement other than Favilla, his village. He had heard tales of cities, but he'd been unable to imagine any place so vast. He knew that Sanctus, the city before him, wasn't particularly large as far as cities go; it was certainly smaller than great metropolises like Nova Vita, the capital of the Commonwealth in the west. But even Sanctus, this humble seaside town, was larger than any place Cade had ever seen.

  Hundreds of domed huts covered the landscape here, sloping down toward the sea. Several monasteries rose among them, their towers pale and thin, proxies of the Cured Temple that rose in Nova Vita in the west. A massive fortress, its four towers rising even taller than the monasteries' steeples, rose upon an outcrop of stone that stretched into the sea. Several firedrakes perched upon the fortress walls, and others circled above the city. Brigantines anchored in the port, tillvine blossoms painted on their sails. Here was the eastern border of the Commonwealth, and the distant Horde warriors were masters of the sea; this was not only a city of holiness but of war.

  "There will be many paladins here," Cade said to himself. "Lovely."

  His heart began to beat more rapidly. Had word of his escape reached this place already? Did the paladins in Sanctus know to seek him, to bring him back to Mercy? Cade could not simply saunter into this city, or he'd be caught like a fish leaping into a boat. If Mercy had any sense to her, she'd have sent a firedrake to every city within days of Favilla, warning her men to seek him.

  Cade bit his lip, considering. There would be no sneaking into this city; high walls surrounded it, and he saw only one gateway. He glimpsed sunlight on armor—guards.

  Guards who might be looking for me.

  Cade looked around him. To his left, a copse of aspens grew upon a hill. Their leaves whispered in the wind, catching the sunlight, flashing back and forth like thousands of green coins jostled in a purse. Cade bit his lip.

  "I must be crazy," he told himself. "But it might just work."

  He approached the trees, plucked off a bunch of leaves, and sat on the ground. He spent a while meticulously tearing, biting, shaping. Finally he stuffed the leaves into his pocket, rose to his feet, and walked on.

  Before long he reached the walls of Sanctus. The gates rose before him, several times his height. The oaken doors were opened, revealing a cobbled street lined with homes. A handful of guards stood here, wearing chainmail and white robes embroidered with tillvine blossoms.

  "Toll's a copper coin," said one guard, a portly man with a scruffy face. He yawned. "Though you don't look like you got a copper on you."

  Cade rummaged through his pockets. He had fled his village in a mad dash, leaving behind everything he owned. In his pocket, in addition to the leaves, he found a fallen button he'd been intending to sew back onto his coat, a purple snail's shell he had picked up a week ago, and thankfully a single copper coin. He handed the guard the coin, the last money he had. With another yawn, the guard stuffed the coin into his purse and gestured for Cade to enter the city.

  With a sigh of relief, Cade stepped through the gates and onto the cobbled street.

  His breath died when a hand grabbed him.

  "Wait a moment," growled another guard, this one tall and gaunt. Holding Cade fast, he glared at the shorter, yawning guard. "You heard what the paladins said. They're looking for someone. A boy, they said. Brown hair like this one got." His voice dropped to an ominous whisper. "Uncured, they said."

  Cade's heart burst into a gallop, and sweat trickled down his back, but he refused to show his fear.

  "Here's my brand," Cade said, pulling down his tunic to reveal his shoulder. "I'm cured. Look, I carry around ilbane and everything." He pulled out the aspen leaves—the ones he had carefully shaped, tearing them into long, serrated forms. "I like to make tea with ilbane. I figure it keeps weredragons away too." He stuffed one of the mock ilbane leaves into his mouth, chewed, and forced himself to grin. "You want some?" He stretched out a muddy handful of the leaves toward the gaunt guard. "They're good to chew."

  The guard cursed and shoved his hand. "Get away from me. You stink of sweat and shite, and you're covered in filth." He grumbled. "Go on, get out of my sight. And I warn you, if I hear you causing trouble in my city, I'll have your bones snapped and your corpse hung from the walls. Now go!"

  For the first time since fleeing his home, Cade was thankful he hadn't bathed in a while; perhaps his smell, even more than his fake leaves, had saved his life. Leaving the guards, he walked into the city.

  As he walked down the boulevard, he wanted to appear nonchalant, just another city dweller. But he couldn't help it. He walked with his head tilted back, mouth agape, eyes wide. By the Spirit, he had never imagined buildings could be this large! True, the domed huts were the same here as back home—modest dwellings for commoners, their windows round, their gardens barren of any flower. But among the huts rose buildings of splendor; they seemed to Cade like palaces.

  A monastery rose ahead, its columns soaring, its dome coated with gleaming silver. Gargoyles shaped as dragons perched upon it, and statues of ancient druids guarded its doors. Priests and priestesses walked between the columns, their robes snowy white and trimmed with gold. The sounds of prayer rose from within, old chants praising the Spirit and calling for the Falling. Cade kept walking. Farther down the boulevard, he caught view of the city fortress; it was still distant, all the way by the sea, but even from here it seemed massive. Its towers soared, topped with perching firedrakes, and beyond the craggy walls spread the sea.

  Cade shook his head wildly, looking away.

  "The library," he muttered. "I must find the library."

  For all their beauty, the monasteries and castles of the Temple were full of enemies, men and women who would hunt him for his magic. If he were to bel
ieve Domi, in the city library he would find aid.

  He sighed.

  I wish you were here, Domi, he thought.

  The damn weredragon—no, she was called Vir Requis, like him—was probably an enemy too, the woman who had bound him, who had borne Mercy to hunt him. Yet by the Spirit, even now, Cade could not stop thinking how her body—slender yet shapely—had pressed against him, how her lips had touched his ear. He thought that even more than soaring steeples or blue seas, Domi's large green eyes, peering from between the tangles of her red hair, were beautiful.

  For a second time, Cade had to shake his head wildly, clearing it of thoughts. He kept walking, exploring the city, seeking any building that looked like a library. He was walking down a narrow, cobbled road lined with clay huts when he froze and sucked in air.

  A paladin was marching down the street, leading twenty soldiers.

  Cade slinked to the edge of the road, his back to the huts. The paladin was an older man, his face lined, and the hair on his right side—which most paladins bleached as a sign of purity—looked naturally white. He wore the white plate armor of his order, while his men—simple soldiers of common blood—wore alabaster tunics over chainmail. As they marched down the street, a firedrake streamed above, its wings blasting air down onto the street.

  An urge filled Cade to shift into a dragon, to fly away or fight, to blow fire. But he forced himself to kneel, as all commoners were required to do at the sight of paladins. He bowed his head. The procession walked before him, and Cade held his breath, praying to any god who'd listen for them to keep walking.

  But the paladin halted. His soldiers slammed down their boots behind him, standing at attention. The aging holy warrior turned toward Cade.

  Oh damn it. Cade swallowed, keeping his head low.