Dragons Lost

by Daniel Arenson

  He led her through the tunnel and outside into the night. The Temple rose behind them, its crystal spikes rising toward the stars. The Square of the Spirit sprawled before them, a vast expanse, large enough for armies to muster on. Beyond spread the thousands of city homes and workshops, humble huts of clay. Gemini had still not outfitted Pyre with a new saddle; he mounted her and sat bareback.

  "Fly, friend." He pressed his bare heels—he wore no spurs or even boots this night—into her tenderspots. "Fly with me."

  She flew.

  They soared high over the square, so high they soared above the Temple. They flew east across the city, and he looked down at the endless streets, this hive of ants. The stars shone above. One of the constellations, Gemini had always thought, looked a little like a firedrake, like Pyre. Flying here under the stars, he felt as if he rode the constellation itself.

  They flew until they left the city behind, and then they glided over the wilderness, floating through endless black. Only him, her, the heat of their bodies pressed together, the fire in her maw. When Pyre tilted her scaly head, and he saw her face, it seemed to him that she was smiling, that she was at peace, that she enjoyed this flight as much as he did.

  He kept riding her through the darkness, the wind in his hair and nostrils, rising and falling, and it seemed to him better than loving the woman, better than loving a thousand women. He was riding a firedrake, and he was free, bonded with her, a primal animal of the sky.

  CADE

  He walked between the bookshelves, following Fidelity through the small library. Cade had a million questions he wanted to ask. What was Requiem? Was Fidelity a Vir Requis too, and did she know others? Who was Domi and how had she known to send Cade here? Yet when he began to ask, Fidelity shook her head.

  "Wait."

  They reached a heavy oaken shelf topped with holy books bound in leather, tillvine blossoms upon their spines. Fidelity chose one book—a small collection of hymns—and tugged it downward. The entire shelf creaked and slid on secret hinges. Cade's eyes widened. The shelf slid three feet, revealing a trapdoor in the floor.

  "I've heard that books can be portals to new places." Cade whistled. "I didn't know they meant it literally."

  Fidelity gave him a wry smile. "Wonderful. Now come on. Follow me."

  She tugged the trapdoor open, revealing a wooden staircase that led into a cellar. She stepped into the shadows and he followed, walking close behind. She grabbed a glass lamp which hung on the wall and stepped off the last step. Cade joined her, and his eyes widened further. He lost his breath.

  "Welcome," Fidelity said, "to the true Library of Sanctus."

  "This," Cade said, "is a library."

  The chamber was no larger than the library aboveground—about the size of his humble bakery back home. But its wonder was not contained by its size. Oak shelves lined the walls, the wood lovingly carved and polished. Glass jars glowed on the top shelves, casting golden, white, and yellow lights, their fuel a mystery to Cade. An aromatic haze hung in the air. Many shelves held curiosities: model ships inside bottles, bowls of seashells and crystals, daggers with jeweled hilts, toy soldiers and dragons carved of polished stone, and counter-squares boards with pieces of ebony and silver.

  But mostly the shelves held books, and these books were more wonderful than any of those aboveground. Some books were bound in richly worked leather, their spines displaying trees, stars, suns, and animals. Other books sported covers of precious metal inlaid with gems, while some covers were carved of olive wood. Many books lay open upon tables, displaying colorful illustrations of animals, mythological creatures, and grand cities with many towers. Cade glanced at the titles on the spines: Old Songs of the Forest, Artifacts of Wizardry and Power, The True Dragons of Salvandos, and many other titles hinting at wonder and arcane lore.

  Here were no holy books. These were books the Cured Temple would burn—and would burn anyone who read them.

  "It's wonderful," Cade whispered.

  Fidelity nodded and her voice softened; she spoke with the same wistfulness, the same aura of holiness, that Domi had used when speaking the name of a forgotten kingdom. "The most wonderful place in the world. Here do we guard the world's knowledge."

  A raspy, jarring sound rose ahead—somebody clearing his throat. An armchair scraped across the floor, creaking around to reveal a man. Cade started; he had thought Fidelity and he were alone.

  With his tattered rags and muddy skin, Cade couldn't have made a pretty sight. The man in the armchair looked even worse. His garments were fine enough—sturdy trousers, a burlap shirt, even good leather boots—but his face made Cade take a step back. It looked, he thought, like the face of a barbarian from the depths of the wilderness, more the countenance of an ape than a man.

  The brow was heavy, the jaw square and wide, the forehead deeply lined. It was a massive head, large and craggy like a boulder, the skin olive-toned. White stubble grew across this jagged face, almost thick enough to be called a beard, but the man's eyebrows were black as coal, thicker than most men's mustaches, and his hair was long and wild and darker than midnight, falling halfway down his back.

  But worst of all were the eyes. Those eyes were sunken, blacker than pits of oil, and haunted like the dark windows of fallen castles. Here were the eyes of pain itself, the eyes of a man who had seen too much to bear, who carried too many memories, who bore bitterness and rage and grief that would crush men of lesser strength. Cade had stared into the eyes of cruelty before—Mercy's blue glare still haunted him—but this man's eyes were even worse. Cade knew that they would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  The man cleared his throat again, an ugly sound. He spoke in a raspy voice. "The world's knowledge? Ha! The legends of a lost world." He placed a pipe in his mouth, inhaled deeply, then sputtered out smoke with a cough and curse. "A world gone. Forgotten. A world that can never return." He turned to stare at Fidelity. "Who is this, daughter? Why have you brought him here? Is he some boy you fancy? None may see these books. I will have to snap his neck."

  Cade gasped—partly at the threat, partly at the realization that this grizzled, gruff man, leathery and foul and cruel, could have fathered the fair Fidelity with her large blue eyes, silky golden hair, and warm embraces.

  "Father!" Fidelity said, her eyes lighting up. "Domi sent him. He's . . . oh, stars, he's one of us. A Vir Requis." She turned toward Cade, smiling. "Show him, Caleric!"

  "My true name is Cade," he said softly, suddenly feeling awkward with father and daughter both staring at him. "Cade Baker. From a village called Favilla in the west, south of the mountains. I . . ." He gulped under the man's withering glare. "Never mind the geography for now."

  Cade looked around him, mindful of the close quarters, and repeated his performance—summoning just enough magic to grow scales and the buds of wings, then returning to human form before he could topple the shelves around him.

  For a long moment, Fidelity's father stared at him, eyes hard. He puffed on his pipe.

  "So . . . my daughter has found another," he finally said, but no relief or joy filled his voice, only bitterness.

  Cade shook his head. "Technically, I'm the one who found Fidelity. I traveled for days across the grasslands to get here, and—"

  "I mean my other daughter." The man coughed. "Domi. She's the one who sent you here, isn't she?"

  Cade's eyes widened. "Domi is . . ." He turned back toward Fidelity. "Your sister?"

  The two looked nothing alike. Fidelity was all prim and proper, what with her spectacles, braided blond hair, and trim vest with its polished brass buttons. Domi had been a wild ragamuffin, her red hair all in tangles, her skinny body clad in rags, her face smeared with dirt.

  Fidelity sighed. "Apparently she is, though I sometimes swear she was switched at birth. Domi is a wild little beast, an errant girl who made very, very bad choices in her life." She looked at Cade, tapping her chin. "At least she made one good choice sending you here. Probably didn't know what
to make of you." She stepped closer and placed a hand on Cade's shoulder. "We'll help you. Korvin—my father—is perhaps a little gruff, but he's wise. He'll teach you. He'll—"

  "—have no part in this," Korvin finished for her. He placed down his pipe, lifted his chair by the armrests, and spun it back around, turning its back to Cade and Fidelity. "We have no room here to shelter you. Leave this place, Cade Baker, and go home."

  Cade gasped. "Go home?"

  Even Fidelity seemed taken aback. "Father, I—"

  "Silence!" Korvin roared, his voice echoing through the chamber. "Leave this place. Leave me. Go!"

  Fidelity began walking toward the exit, but Cade stood still, feet planted firmly on the floor. "No."

  Korvin leaped to his feet and stomped around the armchair. Cade had thought Korvin's face intimidating before; now it was terrifying. The man's leathery skin reddened, and his eyes blazed with black fire. His teeth ground. Cade felt the blood drain from his face; Korvin towered over him, an entire foot taller. The man's fists clenched, and veins rose along his arms and neck, and he seemed to Cade as beastly as a firedrake.

  "Leave," Korvin said again, the words squeezing through his clenched jaw.

  Cade knew that Korvin could crush him, could snap his bones within his gnarled fists. But still he would not budge.

  "Cade," Fidelity said softly and placed her hand on his shoulder. "Let's go, maybe tomorrow we—"

  "No," Cade again. He stood frozen. He refused to break eye contact with Korvin. "I have no home left. The paladins burned it down. The paladins killed my family—all because of my magic. I traveled for days across the wilderness, fighting the Cured Temple, slaying paladins with my dragonfire, all to find this place. To find answers." Though his insides trembled, Cade forced his voice to remain steady, forced himself to stare into Korvin's eyes. "You want me gone? You'll have to answer some questions first." He took a deep breath and thought of Domi's eyes, of her voice in his ear. "What is Requiem?"

  The rage seemed to leave Korvin like air from a deflating bellows. The grizzled giant's shoulders stooped, his fists loosened, and he sighed deeply.

  "A memory," Korvin said. "That is all. A forbidden memory we must not speak of."

  "Yet a memory we preserve," Fidelity said, "while all others have forgotten." She glanced toward Korvin. "Father, can I show him?"

  The man grunted. "No use for it. Pointless to fill the boy's head with dreams. Show him if you must." He trudged across the room, knocking Cade back, and approached the stairs. "But I'll hear none of it. I've had enough of damn stories and the damned dreams of fools."

  With that, the burly man stomped up the stairs, leaving Fidelity and Cade alone in the cellar.

  Finally Cade allowed himself to let down his guard. He shuddered and wiped his brow; his hand came back damp with sweat. "Blimey, Fidelity, has anyone ever told you that your old man is a right nightmare? I mean, I've seen firedrakes I'd prefer spending an afternoon with."

  Fidelity lowered her head. "He does not mean to be cruel. He is hurt. Cruelty always springs from pain. He grieves."

  "Grieves for what?" Cade stared up the staircase and shuddered again. "He didn't exactly seem mournful to me. More like he wanted to rip out my throat."

  "He grieves for you," Fidelity said softly. "For me. For Domi. For any others who might exist. For my fallen mother. For Requiem." A tear streamed down her cheek. "We all grieve for Requiem."

  "Fidelity, you and your father . . . you're Vir Requis too, aren't you?"

  She nodded and closed her eyes. Before him, she began to shift. Sea-blue scales appeared upon her body, and indigo wings grew from her back. Before she could complete the transformation and knock down the bookshelves, she released the magic, returning to human form.

  "My family and I are Vir Requis," she said. "We've only ever met two others. Until you, Cade. You are a great blessing."

  His eyes stung. Other Vir Requis. I'm not alone.

  "A blessing?" He lowered his head. "Your father didn't seem to think so."

  "It is because he thinks so, because your existence is precious, that he rages . . . rages for what could have been, for what we lost. I will show you."

  She took his hand and led him around the armchair. The seat faced a shelf where only one book stood, a single volume wrapped in leather; it seemed to Cade almost like a holy relic. Fidelity gingerly lifted the book and laid it on a table. On its leather cover appeared words in silver: The Book of Requiem.

  "This book contains all the lost knowledge of a world that was," Fidelity said. "It is the heirloom of our people, a single book containing the lore of a nation." She smiled shakily. "For a hundred years, we few—we who carry the magic within us—have been guarding this book, guarding the hope that someday Requiem can return." She touched his arm. "It's all right, Cade. You can read it."

  Cade opened the book and began to read . . . and his body began to shake.

  His eyes dampened.

  Visions of dragons, marble towers, great wars and great golden eras of peace, heroes, villains, dreams, hopes, kings and queens, pillars of fire, and—

  His body trembled wildly. The room spun. He slammed the book shut with a shower of dust.

  "It can't be," he whispered.

  Fidelity watched him, a sad smile on her lips. "The world that was. The kingdom we once were." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Requiem."

  Cade shook his head wildly. He paced the room, clenching and loosening his fists. "But there's only ever been the Cured Temple! Spirit, Fidelity! A world full of Vir Requis, flying free, no priests to purify us? Great cities of marble? Kings and queens stretching back five thousand years? Dragons—countless dragons—flying openly in the sky?" He laughed bitterly. "A fairy tale. Just a story from a book."

  Finally some rage filled her eyes, and she grabbed his arms. "Don't you dare." She shook him. "Don't you dare call Requiem a fairy tale. Requiem was real. We stand now in the very land that once bore that name. Here, on this very coast, Requiem's hero Kyrie Eleison fought the tyrant Dies Irae. We are children of starlight, all of us, not this cruel 'Spirit' the Commonwealth worships. The Commonwealth." She snorted. "It's no more than a hundred years old. Its paladins burned all books and scrolls mentioning Requiem, smashed every statue of the old kings and queens, forbade anyone to even speak the name of our old kingdom. And now they try to purify us of our magic, to make King's Column fall. Do you know why it's even called King's Column?" Her fingers dug into Cade's arms, and she stared at him with blazing urgency. "It was King Aeternum himself, the founder of Requiem, who raised that column over four thousand years ago. The stars of the Draco constellation—our true gods—blessed it, and the stars' magic still keeps it standing. King's Column will stand so long as we do. And I vow to never let it fall."

  Cade stared at her in silence for a moment, then breathed deeply. "I need to sit down."

  He stumbled toward Korvin's armchair and sank into it. He leaned his head back and narrowed his eyes to slits. It felt like the world was crumbling around him. Derin and Tisha, the only parents he'd ever known, were dead. His village lay in ashes. His sister was missing. And now he learned that his entire reality—the Commonwealth and the Cured Temple that ruled it—were but a lie built upon the ruins of an ancient world . . . a world he was tied to by the very magic inside him.

  "It's a lot to take in," Fidelity said. She sat on one of the seat's arms and placed a hand on Cade's shoulder.

  He looked at her, feeling too weak to even lift his head off the backrest. "What do we do now?"

  "What we've always been doing. Seeking others. Collecting our lore. Maintaining the memory of Requiem so that—"

  Shouts rose from above, interrupting her.

  "Where's the boy?" a man cried.

  "Are you hiding the vermin?" shouted a woman.

  The cries of a dozen people or more rose above. Cade heard armor chinking and swords drawn.

  "They found me," Cade whispered. "The paladins found me."
r />   "Cade!" the woman cried above. "Come to me, Cade!"

  Lady Mercy, he knew.

  He leaped to his feet, Fidelity cried out and grabbed The Book of Requiem, and the wrath and righteousness of the Cured Temple crashed into the library.

  KORVIN

  The damn boy ruined us!

  Mercy, Paladin of the Cured, stormed into the library, and with her came several soldiers in chainmail. Outside the window, Korvin saw more paladins, and firedrakes screeched upon the boardwalk.

  "Where's the boy?" Mercy shouted, blue eyes flashing. "He was seen entering this library." She stood nearly a foot shorter than Korvin, but she grabbed his collar and sneered at him. "Are you harboring a weredragon, old man?"

  Korvin looked down at her. A young woman, her blue eyes mad with rage. Her lips sneering, revealing sharp white teeth. Half her head shaved. Her hair long and white, her stance proud, the stance of a lioness.

  She looks so much like her mother.

  It was Beatrix's strength and pride that had first drawn Korvin to her. That had made him love her. That had later made him flee.

  You could have been my daughter, Mercy, Korvin thought, looking down at her. Had I stayed with your mother, I could have been the one to father you. Yet now you are my enemy.

  He grabbed her wrist and, gently but firmly, pushed her hand back. "No weredragon here, my lady," he said gruffly. "This is a holy place. A place for priests, not brutes."

  Her eyes flashed. She drew her sword. "Do you know who I am, old man?"

  He stared into her eyes. "I know you well, Lady Mercy Deus, daughter of High Priestess Beatrix."

  "And yet you do not kneel before me." She turned toward her men. "Search the library! Tear down every shelf! Find the boy."

  Korvin dared not remove his eyes from Mercy. All around him, the soldiers rifled among the shelves.

  "Lady Mercy!" one soldier cried out. "A trapdoor! Stairs leading below."

  Korvin cursed himself. He cursed the boy. He cursed the Cured Temple and everyone in the Commonwealth. Ten thousand times, he had emerged from the cellar, had carefully closed the trapdoor and placed the bookshelf back above it, concealing the secrets within. Then one boy, one fool who'd come with questions, had shaken Korvin enough for him to leave the trapdoor uncovered.