Dragons Lost

by Daniel Arenson

  "I saw a place here somewhere . . . where . . . ah!" His eyes lit up. "Here."

  He led her toward a round clay house, taller than the others. A statue of an ancient druid rose in the garden, hands pressed together. Ilbane—the plant that burned weredragons—grew around the statue's feet, and Domi froze and hissed. Even from here, she could smell the leaves, feel them burn her.

  Gemini squeezed her hand and tugged her along. "Come on. We'll walk along the path. The plants won't hurt you."

  She followed reluctantly. Walking along the small, pebbly path through the ilbane garden felt like walking along a bridge over lava. Finally they reached the house's door, and Gemini pounded on it with his fist.

  "Open up!" he shouted.

  No answer came.

  "They're probably asleep," Domi said, glancing up at the moon. The hour was late.

  He ignored her and pounded on the door again. "Open up, damn you! In the name of the Temple!"

  A light turned on in an upstairs window—the glow of an oil lamp. Footsteps shuffled and the door creaked open, revealing a wizened old woman in a white shawl. Gemini shoved the door wider, nearly knocking the woman down, and tugged Domi into the house. Inside, many robes hung on pegs, and reels of fabrics rose everywhere, reminding Domi of cottony caskets of ale.

  "My lord!" said the seamstress, kneeling.

  Gemini didn't spare her a glance. He patted Domi's hand and smiled at her, his eyes lighting up.

  "Choose, Domi," he said. "Choose any fabric you like, and I'll have the seamstress prepare you a fine tunic."

  Domi looked around the house. "All the fabrics look the same. They're all white."

  He smiled. "I have much to teach you. They're all different. Some are lush and expensive, others thinner and cheap. Some are cotton, others wool, and some silk. Touch them! Caress them. Choose your favorite."

  Domi didn't care what fabric she wore; she'd be happy wearing burlap again like a commoner. But she dared not defy Gemini. She walked among the reels of fabric, caressing them. Finally she chose a light, soft fabric—cotton, she thought.

  The seamstress smiled at her. "An excellent choice, my child." She pulled out a strip of tape, and Domi stretched out her arms, letting the woman measure her.

  "Have the tunic ready by noon tomorrow," Gemini said when the seamstress was done. He slapped a few silver coins onto the table. "Wake up your girls now if you must, but have it ready. Deliver it to the fortress, and tell the guards it's for Lady Domi. If you're late, I will be very disappointed. You would not like that."

  The seamstress nodded. "It will be ready, my lord."

  Gemini took Domi's hand again and guided her out of the house.

  He led her through the streets and between the dark homes. Scattered lanterns rose along the streets of Sanctus, and a few stray cats, eyes glowing in the night, were the only life they saw. Finally they reached a stretch of land that thrust out into the sea, something halfway between a small peninsula and a massive breakwater. A road here led them toward Fort Sanctus, guardian of the city and watcher of the sea. Its towers rose into the night, bearing the banners of the Cured Temple, tillvine blossoms upon them.

  A few years ago, when Domi had still lived in the library with her father and sister, she had read The Book of Requiem. The Temple claimed that Sanctus had always been a city of the Commonwealth, serving the Spirit, but Domi knew better. Over a thousand years ago, Fort Sanctus had been but a single tower, a relic of a kingdom named Osanna. The hero Kyrie Eleison, a great Vir Requis, had hidden in the tower from Dies Irae, a tyrant who had hunted the Vir Requis to near extinction. Kyrie had begun his journey here in Fort Sanctus, eventually finding other Vir Requis, binding together, and raising Requiem from ruin.

  The hero Kyrie fought the enemies of Requiem here, Domi thought, head lowered. While I walk hand in hand with a new tyrant.

  They passed by guards in chainmail and white tunics—commoners drafted into the Temple's army—and entered the grand hall of Fort Sanctus. Domi had never been inside the Cured Temple back in the capital, only in the pit beneath it. Flying by the Temple windows, however, she had glimpsed halls of splendor: marble columns inlaid with jewels, ceilings of gold and azure, priceless tapestries, crystal chandeliers, and statues made of precious metals. Here, far on the eastern coast, was a simpler place. The floor was simple stone, the columns unadorned limestone, the vaulted ceiling fading into shadows. Through arrowslits, Domi glimpsed the dark sea, and the sound of the waves rolled through the fortress in a soothing lullaby.

  Gemini led her down a corridor and to the bathing chamber. Several bronze baths rose here, and water was simmering in a cauldron over a fire. Brushes, soaps, and towels lay on wooden tables. Gemini roused a servant who lay sleeping in the corner.

  "Prepare a bath!" Gemini ordered the man. "Then head to the kitchens, wake the cooks, and order two meals prepared. Have them delivered to my chambers. Go!"

  Soon the bath was full of hot, soapy water. Domi stepped forward and stared at the bath, but she did not step in.

  "Go on," Gemini said. The harsh tone, which he had used with the servant, was gone now. His voice was soft, almost kind. "You'll feel better once you've bathed."

  She stared down at her body; it was covered in sand, grime, sweat, and mud. She had not bathed in . . . by the stars, it must have been years, not since she had left the library to become an undercover firedrake. She was used to her own smell, but Domi imagined that Gemini's nostrils were not as desensitized.

  I wonder if Cade thought me filthy and stinky too, Domi thought. That thought disturbed her more than what Gemini might think. Cade had been angry at her; he had yelled and tried to leave her, maybe had even blamed her for the ruin of his village. But Domi had seen kindness in him, and she had thought of Cade often since that day. If she ever saw Cade again—if he escaped Mercy and could return to her someday—Domi wanted to at least greet him without her stench preceding her.

  "Turn around," she said to Gemini. "I won't have you watching me undress."

  He nodded and turned to face the wall.

  Domi peeled off the tatters of burlap that clung to her skin with mud and sweat. When finally off her body, they disintegrated, falling to the floor in shreds. Only the filth, apparently, had held the rags together; she would wear them no more. She climbed into the hot water, leaned back, and couldn't help but sigh.

  It felt wonderful.

  "You can turn back now," she said, sitting in the bath, the water up to her neck.

  Gemini turned back toward her and frowned. "The water's all gray already."

  Her head sticking out from the soapy broth, Domi couldn't help but grin. It was the first time she had smiled in ages, and it felt good.

  "I was dirty."

  She dunked her head underwater and rubbed the dirt out of her hair. When Gemini handed her a brush, she worked for a long time, clearing out the knots. He made her switch to a second bath then, one of clean water, and she gave herself a second scrubbing. Finally, when her fingers were wrinkled, she stepped out from the bath and wrapped herself in a towel.

  "Wear this for now," Gemini said, fetching her a tunic from a shelf. "It's mine. It'll be too large for you, but it'll do until the seamstress delivers your proper clothes."

  He turned around again, and when he turned back and saw her in the tunic, Gemini let out a long, pleased sigh.

  "You're beautiful," he whispered.

  Domi tiptoed, barefoot, across the wet floor toward a tall mirror. She examined her reflection, and she barely recognized herself. Her skin, always coated in dirt, was now very pale and strewn with freckles. Her hair, always a mess of tangles, now hung down neatly past her chin, the color of fire. Only her eyes remained the same—large and green and staring curiously.

  He led her out of the bathing chamber, up a staircase, and through a doorway. They entered a bedchamber whose windows overlooked the dark sea. A meal waited on a table by the window, steaming and filling Domi's nostrils with delicious sc
ents. Her mouth watered. When she approached the table, she saw a silver platter with a roast duck upon a bed of leeks and spiced mushrooms, diced potatoes fried with onions, bread rolls topped with grains, a stick of butter, and a bowl of grapes, dates, and cherries. White wine filled a jeweled pitcher.

  "Oh Spirit," she whispered.

  As a firedrake, she had been given nothing but raw meat in rusty old buckets. Those had been her only meals for years. To eat proper human food . . . by the stars of Requiem, it would be divine, perhaps the thing Domi had missed most about being human.

  She looked up at Gemini, seeking his approval. A smile split his face, and he patted her flat belly. "Go and fill this thing."

  She raced toward the table and began to feast. She scarfed down the food so fast she barely had time to breathe or swallow. Gemini sat across the table from her, eating little, watching her with a small smile on his face. She ignored him. She stuffed pieces of duck into her mouth, chewing vigorously, and chomped on bread and potatoes between bites of meat. She gulped down the wine straight from the pitcher, holding the vessel with both hands. Grease and wine dripped down her chin.

  "Careful or you'll need another bath," Gemini said.

  She kept eating. Finally—she must have consumed more food than an army—she could not eat another bite. She slouched back in the chair, patting her rounded belly. She thought she'd never be able to walk again, just sit here and digest for days and days. She couldn't help but hiccup, then covered her mouth with embarrassment, feeling her cheeks blush.

  "I told you, Domi," Gemini said. "I'll watch over you. I'll always make sure you have fine clothes to wear, hot baths whenever you'd like them, delicious meals and the best wine in the Commonwealth. You're mine now. You're my woman. My love. You will live like a queen."

  A queen in a gilded cage, she thought, and guilt filled her. She was eating the food of the enemy. She was living in splendor while her family fled for their lives. She was dining with a paladin while that paladin's sister led an army to hunt Domi's family.

  She lowered her head, the guilt suddenly heavier in her belly than the food.

  Gemini rose from his seat, walked toward her, and placed a hand on her shoulder. "We'll keep it a secret," he said, voice soft. "Your disease. We'll tell my sister that Pyre, the firedrake, is dead and buried under the sea. We'll tell her that you're my lover, a pure woman. Nobody will know that you're ill with the dragon curse. We won't tell them."

  Domi closed her eyes.

  Disease.

  Yes, he still thought her diseased of course. He still thought the ancient magic of Requiem a curse, not the blessing Domi knew it was.

  He's your enemy, Domi, she told herself. Never forget that. Never forget who you are.

  She pushed away the empty plates and looked around the room. "There's only one bed. Where do I sleep?" She narrowed her eyes. "I'm not sharing a bed with you, Gemini."

  "Of course not," he said quickly, but she saw the hint of embarrassment in his eyes; he had hoped she would. "I'll take the floor. I'm sure you wouldn't mind letting me have one of the blankets, at least."

  They lay down to sleep—she on the bed, wrapped in a sheet, he on the floor atop a thick blanket. Soon he was breathing deeply, lost in slumber.

  She looked down at him.

  Kill him, whispered a voice in her head. Kill him now. Stab him with the knife on the table, then flee out the window. He's your enemy.

  She closed her eyes. She trembled. She could not.

  Sleep was slow to find her, for so much confusion and fear filled her—for her family, for her own life, for the memory of Requiem fading from the world. Finally she thought of Cade again, as she often did before sleeping. She brought to mind his kind, honest face, his large hazel eyes, his messy brown hair. She imagined that he was lying in this bed with her, that it was Cade she shared this chamber with, not a cruel paladin. Finally she slept, pretending that she lay on the beach with Cade under a blanket of stars.

  Yet her dreams were different. In her slumber, she saw herself as a paladin, clad in white armor, hunting her family, shooting them with arrows, killing them and laughing with Gemini as they died.

  FIDELITY

  She sat among the trees, staring down at the codex on the table. She caressed the book's cover, trailing her fingers over the silver words worked into the leather: The Book of Requiem.

  I gave up so much for this book, Fidelity thought, passing her fingers over and over across the leather.

  She could have found a better life. She could have sought purification, burned the magic out of her with tillvine, and perhaps found a life in the Cured Temple. She could have taken a husband in the town of Sanctus, found a life as a wife, content and peaceful, with no dreams of old kingdoms and fallen glory. She could have even joined Roen in the forest, her sweet lover whom she had spurned, and spent a life in his strong arms, kissing him every day, sleeping every night in his arms.

  But I chose this book, Fidelity thought, staring at it through the thick lenses of her spectacles. I chose the memory of a dead land, a lore that is all but lost . . . lost but for this single volume before me.

  She looked up from the book, pushing her spectacles up her nose; with her nose being so small, the damn things kept sliding off every moment.

  The others stared back at her: Cade, a boy with messy brown hair, eager hazel eyes, and a nervous energy that had him bouncing in his seat; Korvin, her father—gruff, grizzled, and grumbling, an aging soldier with old pain in his eyes; and Amity, the newest member of their group, her short blond hair falling across her ears and forehead, her one eyebrow raised, her lips twisted into a mocking smile that Fidelity suspected hid a deep fear. The trees of the island rose all around them, walls of greenery, and the song of birds, monkeys, and rustling leaves rose all around. The Horde's camp lay some distance down a dirt path; here, in the forest clearing, the Vir Requis spoke alone.

  You should be here with us, Roen, Fidelity thought, feeling hollow without him, a deep emptiness, a sadness that her lover had chosen his life of solitude in the forest, forgetting Requiem, forgetting all that Fidelity fought for. You should be with us, a man of Requiem, fighting for our kingdom.

  Fidelity took a deep breath and finally spoke.

  "We had ten copies of The Book of Requiem in the library. Only one remains." She caressed the codex. "Here is all that is left of our kingdom, of Requiem, and—"

  "I'm left!" Amity leaped to her feet, pounded her fist into her palm, and snarled across the table. "We are left. We're more important than some dusty old book." The tall woman huffed. "No star-damn piece of rotten parchment can replace living, breathing warriors." She spat into the dirt. "The pages of a book are good for wiping your arse, not rebuilding a kingdom."

  Cade stared up at the older woman from his seat. "You can't read, can you?" He scoffed. "Even I can read, and—"

  Amity growled and grabbed the boy's collar, yanking him from his seat. She stood a couple of inches taller than Cade, and she probably had a few pounds on him too. Korvin had to growl, step between the two, and separate them.

  "Return to your seats!" the old soldier barked. "Cade, stop taunting the woman. Amity, if the boy bothers you again, let me slap him silent." When both were seated, Korvin looked back at Fidelity, some of the rage leaving his dark eyes. "Daughter, continue."

  Fidelity nodded. "Thank you, Father." She cleared her throat and pushed her spectacles back up her nose. She looked at Amity; the older woman sat fuming, fists clenched and eyes shooting daggers. Fidelity met her gaze. "Amity, you are a warrior, and you are brave and strong; I don't doubt that. But we cannot all be warriors. The world needs librarians too. And the world needs books. Requiem needs its book. This volume contains the lore we fight for. In these pages, we can learn the history of our people: how Aeternum, the first King of Requiem, united the wild Vir Requis of the forests and deserts and raised a column of marble, founding our kingdom; how Queen Gloriae, heroine of Requiem, rebuilt the kingdom aft
er the griffins toppled its halls, ushering in a new era of peace and plenty; how King Elethor and Queen Lyana fought invaders from the south, saving Requiem as the phoenixes burned its forests; how King Valien and Queen Kaelyn defeated the tyranny that had seized the throne, returning Requiem to a path of—"

  "Boring!" Amity yawned theatrically. "Bloody bollocks, girl, don't recite the whole damn book. Get to the point before we die of old age."

  Fidelity nodded. "Very well. The bottom line is: Countless heroes and battles are recounted in The Book of Requiem, and without it, our people have no past, no memory, and thus no future. We need more copies. If this single volume is lost, Requiem is lost."

  Cade leaped to his feet, light filling his eyes. "So we'll get to copying! I know how to write. Unlike Am—" At a growl from Amity, he gulped. "I can write new copies. Just bring me some parchment, a quill, some ink, and I'll get to work. If Amity wants to help, she can stroke my hair or rub my feet as I write."

  Again the golden-haired warrior leaped to her feet. "How about I rip out your tongue, boy? I'll make parchment from your skin and ink from your blood." She leaped back toward him and knocked him off his seat, and Cade yelped and held up his arms to ward off her attack. Korvin and Fidelity had to leap forward and drag the combatants apart.

  "Enough!" Korvin thundered. He yanked Cade backward and shoved him into a seat at the other side of the table. "Boy, you sit here, far from Amity, and you shut your mouth."

  Finally, when everyone was seated again, Fidelity continued speaking. "I myself have written a copy of The Book of Requiem; it was lost in the library. It can take hundreds of hours to copy a book this size—there are over a thousand pages here, all crammed full of tiny letters. And that's just one copy. We need hundreds of copies, distributed all over Requiem." She took a deep, tingling breath. "Before the paladins destroyed our library, we had acquired a small book—a copy of The Book of the Cured—from a passing peddler. It was not written with a quill but printed using a new machine. The peddler explained that in his town, an inventor had created many metal letters, which one could arrange onto a hard, flat sheet of iron. One then coats the letters with ink—like stamps—and presses all these stamps down together onto the page. A single page in a book can be created in a second—hundreds of the same pages can be printed at once." Her eyes lit up. "That's what we need. We need this machine. Then we could print hundreds of copies of The Book of Requiem."