Dragons Reborn

by Daniel Arenson

  Roen carried her until they reached rolling grasslands and the fire was but a light on the horizon, a smell of smoke on the wind. The sun set but smoke still hid the moon and constellations. He could see only Issari's Star between the smoky strands, the eye of the dragon, named after an ancient priestess of Requiem. He lay Fidelity down by a stream in the darkness.

  Their clothes were charred, torn, caked with ash and soaked with smoke. They undressed, wincing as the fabric brushed against their wounds, and stepped naked into the stream. It was only a foot deep, and they lay down together, letting the water stream across them. Their hands clasped together, and Roen closed his eyes as he lay in the water, smooth stones against his back, the cold stream flowing across him. He tried to let the stream clear away all his pain, all his grief, all his anger, to let all thoughts and memories flow away with the water. Fidelity squeezed his hand, lying naked beside him, almost invisible in the darkness.

  Let this be a healing river, he thought. If you can hear my prayers, Issari's Star, let us find healing.

  Fidelity turned toward him in the water and kissed his cheek, and they climbed out onto the grass and lay in the night, naked in the darkness.

  To me, you are soothing and healing like water, Roen thought, closing his eyes, holding Fidelity close, trying to lose the pain as he embraced her.

  He kissed her cheek, and then in the darkness, he found himself kissing her lips. She kissed him back, and he stroked her hair, and she wrapped her arms around his back, and he did not mean to, did not expect to, but he found himself making love to her, flowing inside her, moving atop her as she gasped, wrapped her legs around him, buried her hands in his hair. He made love to her in the darkness with the same urgency and passion as their first time. He lay with her for his love, for his grief, for a world that collapsed around him. Perhaps Fidelity was all that remained of his world, all that mattered to him, the sum of all goodness and comfort and light.

  "I love you, Fidelity," he whispered, kissing her neck.

  "I love you, Roen." He felt her tears on his cheek. "Even as worlds crumble, I will always love you."

  They held each other, entwined together, and slept through darkness and dawn.

  DOMI

  She walked with Cade down the dark cobbled streets of Lynport, seeking the Old Wheel, the tavern where she had spent a summer in her youth, the tavern where she would now find hope or crushing grief.

  Did you survive the flight, Fidelity? Domi thought as she walked along the shadowy streets. Do you wait for me here?

  This was an old neighborhood, and this was an old city, an ancient port on the edge of the Commonwealth. Some of the houses here predated the Commonwealth itself. They were built of wattle and daub, the timbers dark and chipped, and their roofs were triangular and tiled, not the clay domes of those houses the Temple had built across the realm. Lantern poles rose at every street corner, and flames flickered within the glass panels of their lamps. Domi could not yet see the ocean ahead, but she heard its whispers calling to her, and she smelled the salt on the air, a smell that triggered so many memories that she shivered.

  "They'll be here, Domi," Cade said softly. He patted her hand. "Fidelity and Roen are swift dragons, faster and stronger than any drake."

  She nodded silently. Cade could not understand her, she knew. He had no memories of the lamplight against the wet cobblestones, the sound of waves, the smell of salt, but to her Lynport was a place of an older life. In her mind, she was a child again, visiting here with her father and sister. They walked along the boardwalk, bought fresh oysters from a stall, and shucked them on the beach. Domi and Fidelity had gagged and squealed at the taste, and Korvin had ended up eating them all. Again, Domi and Fidelity were playing beneath the cliffs of Ralora along the beach, pretending to be old heroines of Requiem like the legendary Queen Lyana, the warrior Agnus Dei, and the famous Tilla Roper who had lived in this very city hundreds of years ago. In her mind, Domi sat again in the Old Wheel tavern, tasting ale for the first time, and eating the best fried fish she had ever tasted.

  It was a summer of family, of innocence, she thought, remembering her time here. A last holiday of joy before I fled our home, before I chose the life of a firedrake, before war burned us and took my family away from me.

  She turned to look at Cade.

  Are we all that remains, Cade? Are we the last whispers of Requiem?

  They kept walking and stepped onto the boardwalk. Only several lanterns cast their light here; the boardwalk stretched long and dark across the coast, the sea whispering to the south, a row of buildings rising in the north. The place was barren. A few stray cats scampered along the beach, the only sign of life. The moon was a faded glow behind the clouds, and the waves whispered.

  Finally Domi saw it ahead, a three-story building of wood and clay rising along the boardwalk. The Old Wheel tavern. Meet me at the old tavern! Fidelity had cried, and here it stood, and here Domi's fear swelled.

  Be here, Fidelity.

  Domi reached out and clutched Cade's hand, seeking some comfort from his presence. He held her hand tightly, and they approached the tavern together. The boardwalk was dark and barren, but Domi found the tavern door unlocked. She and Cade stepped inside.

  The common room was large enough for six or seven tables, most of them in shadow. A hearth lay cold and dark at the back, and casks of ale rose along one wall, looming over a bar. A wagon wheel hung from the ceiling, candles burning upon it, their light the only illumination. Two figures, shadowed and hooded, sat at the back of the room, the only people here.

  Domi stood still, anxious, the sea wind at her back. Suddenly she feared that it was Mercy and Gemini in the shadows, ambushing her, ready to drag her back to the dungeon. The figures leaped to their feet and ran toward her, and Domi hissed and prepared to shift into a dragon and blow her fire.

  "Domi!" cried one of the shadowy figures. "Cade!" The candlelight entered the figure's hood, shining on spectacles with only one lens. The second figure stepped forward too, and the light revealed Roen's beard and warm brown eyes.

  "Fidelity!" Domi cried, and tears budded in her eyes.

  Her sister leaped onto her, embraced her tightly, then laughed and turned toward Cade, and soon they were all swapping hugs and laughter.

  The innkeeper emerged from the kitchen, and soon the companions sat at the table together, and Domi tasted that ale again, and a bargirl placed the same old fried fish before her, and her sister sat beside her again, and once more Domi felt safe, felt loved, and it was too much. And it scared her. And her father was not there. And though she did not eat the fish, she felt as if a bone were lodged in her throat. The room spun around her. Her eyes burned. Her fingers shook and she could not breathe. She rose from the table and fled the tavern, leaving her companions behind.

  She raced across the boardwalk, legs weak, and leaped onto the moonlit beach. She walked along the sand until she reached the sea and stood with her bare feet in the water, and she closed her damp eyes.

  It hurts too much. The memories are too real. The joy is too painful.

  She stood for a long time, breathing deeply, listening to the waves. Finally she heard soft footsteps behind her, and she felt a hand on her shoulder.

  "Domi?"

  She turned to see her older sister. Fidelity stared at her with soft eyes.

  "Are you all right, Domi?" she asked.

  Domi shook her head, and her tears fell. "No. I'm so sorry, sister. I'm so sorry."

  Fidelity held her hand. "For what?"

  "For . . . for doing this to our family." Domi looked down at her toes. "For running away. For becoming a firedrake, a traitor. For bearing Mercy on my back and serving Gemini, as both a firedrake and a woman to mount." She trembled. "I ran from our family. From father. From you. And I miss those old days, and I'm so scared. Where is our father? Oh, Fidelity . . . where is he?"

  Now Fidelity's eyes watered, and she pulled Domi into an embrace. "I wanted to tell you at Old Hollow.
I was going to. But the firedrakes arrived too quickly, and . . . oh Domi. He fell." She squeezed Domi so closely it almost hurt. "It was over the sea. He fought the firedrakes, and Mercy stabbed him, and I tried to save him, but I couldn't. I saw him fall into the water, and Cade and I had to flee. I don't know if he lived or died, but he's lost, Domi."

  Domi trembled.

  Father. Lost.

  "It's my fault," Domi whispered. "Oh, stars, it's my fault. I bore Mercy on my back to Sanctus. I took her right to the library, and now . . ."

  Domi could speak no more. She couldn't even stay standing. She fell to her knees, trembling. Fidelity knelt and embraced her.

  "You helped us flee the library," Fidelity whispered. "Without you, I would be dead. You saved me."

  The waves rose ahead, wetting their knees. Fidelity hugged her close, and Domi could only lie on the sand, a lump in her throat, grief and guilt in her heart.

  I'm sorry, Father. I'm so sorry. I miss you so much.

  "I just wish he were here again," Domi finally whispered. "That I could tell him that I'm sorry. That I could tell him that I love him." She tightened her lips. "He's still alive somewhere. I know it. Korvin is a tough old bastard, the toughest man I know." She sat up, fists clenched in the sand. "I'm going to believe that he's still out there, still fighting, that I'll see him again." She turned to look at Fidelity. "We're going to find him. And until then, we're going to keep fighting for him. For Requiem."

  Fidelity nodded, unable to speak, only to embrace her sister. They sat together, watching the waves. The clouds parted, revealing the head of the Draco constellation. Issari's Star shone down upon them, the dragon's eye, forever guiding their path.

  CADE

  When the sisters returned into the Old Wheel tavern, they all sat together at the back table, cloaked and shadowed.

  "We burn them." Cade pounded the tabletop. "We sneak into the city again. We rise at night." He rose to his feet as if to demonstrate. "We burn down the whole damn Temple!"

  "Hush!" Fidelity glanced around the common room, then glared at Cade. "Keep your voice low and don't pound the table."

  Cade glanced around him too. Candles burned atop the wagon wheel chandelier, casting flickering light across the common room. Casks of ale rose along one wall, and before them stood the old innkeeper, polishing the bar. Several round tables stood scattered across the scarred oak floor. A fire crackled at the hearth. A collection of fisherman and tradesmen raised their eyes to stare at Cade, then shook their heads or grunted and returned to their drinks.

  Cade sat down. "I'll be quiet now. But when we burn the Temple, I'll be roaring."

  He looked at his companions one by one. Fidelity sat beside him, wrapped in a burlap cloak. Her spectacles were still smashed, and her golden braid was cut to half its previous length; the bottom half had burned in the battle. Across from Cade sat two other hooded figures. Roen hunched over, elbows on the table, looking as uncomfortable as a bear trapped in a barn. Cade saw little more than the woodsman's beard and darting eyes. Beside him sat Domi, barely half Roen's size, her cloak wrapped around her. She was busy sipping from her ale and watching everyone, silent, her face blank.

  "The wisest course of action," said Fidelity, "is to continue our work. To keep printing our books. To—"

  "Fidelity!" Cade rolled his eyes. "They burned down the whole damn forest. That includes our printing press. They were waiting for us at the paper mill, and you better believe they've got more men in every paper mill in the Commonwealth. By now they've probably seized every book we've printed and burned it." As she glared at him, Cade forced himself to lower his voice. "Books won't be enough anymore. We need to attack."

  Fidelity tugged at her braid so mightily Cade thought she might rip off what remained of it. "Attack? You saw what happened last time we attacked." She lowered her eyes.

  Cade glanced at Roen, then at his drink. "I know." His voice was soft, barely a whisper. "I didn't know Julian well, but he was kind to me. I can't imagine the pain his loss brings to those who loved him." He looked up and gazed at the three others. "We must continue the fight. We can't let Julian's death be in vain. We have to stop this cursed Temple, and we have to save my sister." His eyes stung. "Eliana is still there in the Temple, just a baby. We have to save her."

  For the first time since they'd entered the tavern, Domi spoke, her voice soft. "Eliana is safe. I saw her in the Temple, Cade. I know you want to save her, and I promise you: I will do what I can to help. But know that she's safe, that she's being treated well."

  "Being raised to become a paladin," Cade said. "Like Beatrix wanted for me."

  Domi frowned and leaned forward. "She wanted you to become a paladin?"

  Cade lowered his eyes again and clasped his hands beneath the tabletop. "She . . . when I was there, in the Cured Temple, she . . . the High Priestess that is . . . she told me that I'm her son." He looked up at the others, seeing them through a haze. "That Mercy and Gemini are my siblings. That she wanted me to consume tillvine, give up my magic, and become a paladin." He barked a mirthless laugh that sounded almost like a sob. "Mind games."

  Domi and Fidelity both gasped.

  "Impossible," said Fidelity.

  "Lies," said Domi.

  Roen, meanwhile, only grunted and hunched down further. "The High Priestess spoke truth."

  Cade frowned. He stared at the hulking forester. What did Roen know of such things? Cade felt anger rise within him. He had never liked Roen, not since the first moment, not since he had seen Fidelity and the brute exchanging secret glances. Did Roen blame him for Julian's death, and was this some kind of feeble attempt at revenge?

  "What do you mean?" Cade demanded. "How can it be true?"

  Roen sighed and, for the first time since entering the tavern, raised his mug of ale. He drank slowly, emptying the mug in a single, long gulp.

  "It was years ago." The forester wiped suds off his beard. "I was only a boy, about the age you are now, Cade. It was the day your father came to Old Hollow, seeking aid. The day he came there with you."

  Everyone was staring at him. Cade wanted to vanish underground.

  "My . . . father," he whispered.

  Roen nodded. "Aye, don't remember him much, to be honest. Couldn't tell you what he looked like. But he was wounded—badly. I remember that much. Burnt and cut and feverish. And he carried you in his arms, a little babe wrapped in swaddling clothes. Our two fathers knew each other; they spoke like old friends." Roen stared into his empty mug as if wishing it were full again. "For the first time, I learned about High Priestess Beatrix. My father had only told me that the world outside the forest was dangerous, that bad people would hunt us for our magic. Your father spoke of Beatrix . . . of his wife. Of your mother." Roen pulled his hood lower over his face and lowered his voice. "He spoke of his other children being purified, of Mercy and Gemini. He spoke of wanting to save his third child . . . to save the babe's magic. To save your magic, Cade. To raise you in Old Hollow, hidden in the forest."

  "What . . . what happened?" Cade whispered. "Why didn't he stay?"

  Roen's eyes darkened. "I'm sorry, Cade. His wounds were too grievous. He died that very night. And you, Cade, well . . . we couldn't care for you. We had no mother's milk. You'd have died too. My father flew off with you in the darkness, said he'd find you a home, a new family. Said he knew a pair of old friends, bakers in a distant town called Favilla, who'd raise you as a son."

  "Derin and Tisha," Cade whispered. "Oh stars. It's all true." His eyes stung. He looked to his side. "Fidelity . . ."

  Her eyes softened, and she pushed her chair up next to his, and she wrapped her arms around him. Domi leaped from her seat, rushed forth, and joined the embrace.

  "It's all right, Cade," Fidelity whispered. "It doesn't matter even if it's true."

  Domi nodded. "You're still a child of Requiem. That's all that matters." She touched his cheek and turned his head toward her. "Do you remember how I first told you about Requiem?"


  Cade nodded. "I remember," he whispered.

  Domi's eyes shone with tears. "It was a dark day. A day of death and mourning. You grieved for Derin and Tisha, those who raised you. They were your real family." She leaned forward and kissed his forehead. "And we're your family now. My sister and I. And Roen too. All Vir Requis are family."

  With the two sisters holding him, Cade shut his eyes. It was true. He had always known it was true, deep down. He had known it since Beatrix had told him, since he had stared at Mercy's face and seen his own face reflected.

  "I need another drink," he whispered.

  "Me too," Roen grumbled. "More than one."

  The tall, bearded woodsman rose to his feet and flagged down a serving girl. Soon four new mugs of ale stood on the table. For a long time, the companions drank in silence.

  Finally it was Domi, still seated beside Cade, who spoke. She reached under the table to clasp Cade's hand, and her voice was low.

  "Cade was right. The time for books is over. The time to burn is here. But not burn the Temple. We don't have the strength for that."

  "So burn what?" Cade asked.

  Domi smiled thinly, green eyes gleaming. "The very source of the Temple's power. The weapon that lets them steal the magic of Requiem. And I know where to find it."

  "Find what, Domi?" Cade asked.

  She squeezed his hand. "Beatrix's fields of tillvine."

  GEMINI

  For a long time, he simply waited.

  In his prison cell, he did not know day from night, minute from hour. There was nothing but darkness here, screams, the smell of blood, his chains chafing his ankles. Sometimes a guard brought him a meal, a bowl of gruel thick with lumps and, more often than not, hairs or bugs or other surprises.

  "Mother!" he called weakly sometimes, slumped against the bars. "Mother! Sister!"

  Yet they never returned. The guards came and went. They had dragged out the burnt corpses of their friends long ago. Now only the other prisoners remained for company; he could barely see them from his cell, but he could hear their screams. He could imagine their broken, shattered bodies. Sometimes he saw the torturers walking down the corridor, carrying the tools of their trade: pliers, pinchers, whips, hammers, hooks, blades. Then the screams rose loudest. Then Gemini huddled at the back of his cell, covering his ears, trembling, his childhood nightmares come true.