"Dragons of Requiem, follow! We fly north."
A few dragons joined him, flying in his wake. Sphinxes closed in behind them, and Jeid spewed his flames, holding them back. A crowd of other dragons flew toward Jeid, trying to join him; the sphinxes tore them apart, and only three dragons reached Jeid, lacerated and crying out in pain. One dragon held her human babe; the screaming child was too young to shift.
"Blow fire in a ring!" Jeid shouted. "Hold them back and keep flying."
The other dragons flew above, below, at his sides. Some tried to join the ring of fire. Most never made it.
"Fly north!" Jeid bellowed, hoping they heard. Only fifty dragons flew behind him, blowing walls of fire around the group. "Dragons of Requiem, flee! Flee to the mountains! Flee to the forests!"
The dragons flew, a thousand sphinxes flying in pursuit. Some dragons flew behind Jeid; most flew in the distance, hidden behind smoke and flame. The setting sun painted the forests red. When Jeid looked behind him, he saw the bloated faces of the sphinxes, their lion bodies, their dank wings, and beyond them the burning forest and fallen hall of Requiem. Then those columns faded, and all he saw was the nightmare of smoke and blood.
"Slay the dragons!" rose a cry—Slyn's voice. "Keep the golden female alive and slay the others. Bring me their skulls!"
Jeid blasted his fire toward the enemy, but he was down to sparks. The sphinxes laughed, their jaws opening wide, their teeth red with the blood of Requiem.
"Requiem, fly!" Laira cried ahead. "Fly to the mountains."
They flew for hours, flew until the sun vanished beneath the horizon, flew as the sphinxes chased, as the sky burned, as more dragons fell. They left a path of their dead behind them.
Darkness fell but no stars emerged; the smoke hid their glow, and the shrieks of the sphinxes rose everywhere in the night, a song of nightmares, of death, and of a fallen kingdom.
ISSARI
She lay upon tasseled cushions, clad in embroidered silks, painted with henna and kohl, perfumed, pampered . . . and chained.
She was Issari Seran, a queen of Eteer, a priestess of Taal, a princess of Requiem . . . and a slave.
"Smoke some hintan!" said Irysa, a young woman with long lashes, gold-painted eyelids, and cascading black hair. "Have some, Issari. It soothes all pain, all fear."
Irysa too wore scanty silks that revealed more than they hid. She too was chained, the bronze links running from her ankle to a bolt in the floor. She took a deep puff on her hookah. Purple liquid bubbled in the glass container, and green smoke rose around the woman. She giggled and passed the mouthpiece to Issari.
The lavender smoke invaded Issari's nostrils, and she coughed and shoved the hookah away. "Don't smoke this! It makes you weak. Makes you woozy. Makes you . . . happy."
She shook her head wildly. The smoke floating through the chamber kept Issari always dizzy, always muzzy, always floating somewhere between wakefulness and dreams. Even without smoking directly from the hookah, the sweet aroma filled her with languor. How long had she been here, lingering in this dream? She did not know. Days? Moons? Years?
She blinked and gazed around her. Dozens of other concubines lounged upon cushions, at the edges of heated pools, and by low tables piled high with golden platters. The scents of wine, honeyed almonds, and sweet pies filled the air alongside the hintan smoke. The women were all young and beautiful, their faces painted, their silks revealing most of their powdered skin. Bracelets, necklaces, and rings adorned them. They were treated like queens, and yet all were chained—chained by the bronze links around their ankles, chained by the hintan that kept their minds soft.
The chamber swayed around her, the edges fuzzy. Issari blinked and shook her head wildly. She waved her hand, trying to clear the smoke. Her many bracelets chinked, beautiful things of gold and silver inlaid with topaz and sapphire. As the bracelets moved, the gemstones left trails of light. Where was she? She saw columns rising beside her. Was she in Requiem? No; these columns were not austere marble. They were carved of colorful porphyry and ringed with gold. The floor was not tiled but covered with a mosaic. It was a hall of light, of grandeur, of precious metals and precious stones.
I'm in Goshar, she realized. In the southern city-state, the place where I had sought safety for my people. I'm a prisoner. I'm—
"Have some, Issari," said another concubine, a golden-haired young woman named Tylal. The beautiful, silk-clad temptress held out a hookah's mouthpiece. "It'll make you laugh!"
A fresh gust of lavender smoke coiled around Issari, tickling her, stroking her like the hands of a lover. Issari sighed deeply. It was so healing, so warm, so sweet.
I was thinking something. I was realizing, remembering. I . . . where am I? She blinked. She did not recognize this place. Where was she? Who was she?
"Girls!" rose a voice. "Girls, feed me. Feed me my precious cakes."
When she squinted and blinked, Issari saw a massive figure at the back of the hall. The man looked like a mountain of melting butter; he must have weighed as much as ten Issaris. He lounged upon many pillows, and he was naked but for a blanket across his lap. Sweat glistened upon his rolls of fat, his bald head, and his jiggling face. A thin, long beard like a rat's tail hung off his chin, and his tufted eyebrows thrust out, dyed green. Each of his fingers sported several gaudy rings.
"Feed me!" he cried out. "Girls! You—Issari. Feed me my cakes, the precious sweetness."
She blinked. Issari? It was her—her name. She was Issari! She rose to her feet. The chamber swayed around her, and the purple smoke wafted. Her fellow concubines giggled, batting their painted eyelashes.
"Feed him, feed him! Feed the Abina Sin-Naharosh. Feed your husband."
Issari narrowed her eyes. Her husband? Yes. Yes, this great man—if a man he truly was, for he looked almost like a demon—was her husband. She remembered. She had wed him! The serpent had tasted her blood, then tasted his, mingling their souls together. Tanin had tried to stop it, he—
"Tanin," she whispered. Tears stung her eyes. How could she have forgotten her sweet Tanin, the man she loved? Her fellow son of Requiem?
"Requiem," she whispered, and now tears flowed down her cheeks. She had almost forgotten the land of dragons across the sea, her home.
"Eteer." Her lips trembled. Eteer—her first home, the kingdom along the coast, fallen to the nephilim. She had led the Eteerians here! Where were they? How could she have forgotten, abandoned her people, and—
"Feed him, feed him!" chanted the concubines. They danced around Issari, their gilded chains jangling. The smoke puffed out from their lips, stroking Issari. The lights of their jewels blinded her and she laughed. She hovered upon the clouds of hintan, and the lights shone, and the gold sparkled.
"I will feed you, my beloved husband." She laughed. "I will feed you your precious cakes, though you are sweeter by far."
She swayed toward one of the low tables, her bracelets chinking. Her gilded chain dragged behind her along the mosaic. Golden platters rose upon the table, full of figs stuffed with almonds, clusters of walnuts and carobs, rolled pastries thick with pistachios and dates, sugared fried breads shaped as swans, and many other delectable sweets. Issari reached for a platter of steaming honey cakes, the abina's favorite. She lifted the golden plate and walked toward her husband.
Seated upon his cushions, the abina licked his lips. His small eyes—they nearly drowned in his puffed face—glittered with hunger. Drool dripped down his chin and onto his naked, powdered chest.
"Here, my sweetness." Issari held out one of the small cakes. "Eat."
He opened his mouth, and she placed the cake inside. He chewed greedily and opened his mouth again, ready for more. She kept feeding him cake after cake, cleaning up the drool and crumbs. It felt like feeding a giant, thousand-pound baby.
"Mmm, they are as sweet as you, my wife." Abina Sin-Naharosh licked his lips. "Will you stroke my head and sing me a song?"
"Of course, my husband." She kissed his che
ek, stroked his head, and sang to him. She sang the only songs she knew—the old songs of Eteer, her home upon the coast.
Eteer!
The memory returned to her.
Eteer—a land of white towers, of hanging gardens, of a canal full of many ships. Eteer—the land where she'd lived as a princess. The memories flooded her: the smell of the carob trees below her balcony, her brother's smile, and her father's cruelty . . . a father who would strike her, who had tossed her to the demons.
Those demons destroyed Eteer. She kept singing, but inside she trembled. I led my people across the desert, but now I'm here, chained, trapped in a dream state.
Clouds of hintan smoke coiled before her, all but obscuring the abina's many concubines. But here, where Issari stood, the smoke had cleared; the abina did not smoke his hookah while feasting. Slowly her thoughts coalesced.
I am Issari Seran, the Priestess in White, she thought as she sang. Tanin needs my love. The people of Eteer need my leadership. Requiem, far in the north, needs my wings.
Her wings! Of course! She could become a dragon! She had that magic. How had she ever forgotten?
"Sing louder!" Sin-Naharosh demanded. He struggled to lift his arm, but it was too heavy; his hand only rose an inch, then slapped back against his thigh. "Sing, my wife."
She nodded and sang louder, but all the while her mind worked feverishly. She had been lingering here far too long, too muzzy to track the passage of time.
As she sang those old songs of Eteer, she found the tune changing on her lips, and new words flowed from her. She had heard this song only once, but she had never forgotten it. Dizzy, weak with the smoke, she sang the song of Requiem in the hall of Goshar.
"As the leaves fall upon our marble tiles, as the breeze rustles the birches beyond our columns, as the sun gilds the mountains above our halls—know, young child of the woods, you are home, you are home." Tears stung Issari's eyes at the memory of dragon wings. "Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."
The giggles died across the hall.
Sin-Naharosh stopped chewing, letting saliva thick with crumbs slide down his chins.
Issari froze.
"Requiem," the obese abina whispered. His face reddened. "The land of dragons." He swung his massive arm with a burst of strength, knocking over the platter of cakes. "The kingdom of reptiles!"
What have I done? Issari stopped singing. "My lord, I'm sorry. I—"
He roared, spraying spittle on her. "How dare you mention the dragons to me? Do you think I don't know that your paramour, that creature you call Tanin, is a weredragon? Do you think I don't know how he lusts for you?" The abina spat. "Yes, I have heard him scream in the dungeons. As my guards' whips tear into his flesh, he cries out your name." Sin-Naharosh laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, the boy tries to shift into a dragon. Tries again and again, only for the chains to dig deep, to keep him in his human form . . . a form so easy to hurt. Should you meet him again, you would not recognize him. I've made your weredragon lover ugly. You are mine, Issari." Through some feat of will, the abina managed to raise his arm; it must have weighed more than Issari's entire body. "You are my wife. Only mine! You will sing to me. You will pleasure me. And you will feed me. Feed me!"
The palace guards, standing between the columns, shifted uneasily and reached for the hilts of their khopeshes. Issari stood frozen, the fallen honey cakes lying around her bare feet.
Tanin.
Her eyes stung with tears.
My sweet Tanin . . .
She thought back to the first time she had met him, a tall northern boy with brown hair and kind eyes. He had flown south to Eteer to free her brother. She had ridden his dragon form, had fought demons from his back. She had learned to become a dragon herself and flown at his side. She had made love to him in the sand, had traveled with him into exile, had seen him grow from boy to man, from juggler to warrior. She had grown to love him.
Now you scream for me. Her tears flowed. You scream in a dungeon while I linger here, eating sweets, clad in silk.
"Feed me!" the abina demanded. "Fetch more cakes and feed me, whore!" He reached for the whip that always lay by his side. He was too weak to cut her skin, but the lashes still stung, leaving red marks. "Feed me!"
Issari nodded. Numb, she took a few steps back toward the table. Her chain jangled behind her. She reached across the table, feeling so hollow, so hurt.
"Feed me!" the abina's voice rose behind.
She lifted a golden platter of honeyed almond cakes and stepped back toward her husband. The obese abina smacked his lips, and his tongue darted greedily. His hands opened and closed.
"Mmm, good. Feed them to me. Feed me my sweets."
She stepped closer, her fingers tingling. His mouth opened like a baby bird's beak. She placed a cake inside.
"I will feed you," she whispered. Her eyes burned. "Sweets for my sweetling."
She placed another cake in his mouth. He chewed lustfully, crumbs and drool dripping down his naked chest. She placed a third cake into his waiting jaws.
For Tanin.
She placed another cake in the king's mouth.
For Eteer.
"Wh— Iss— sto—" The abina sputtered, crumbs falling from his mouth.
For Requiem.
She lifted three cakes and shoved them into her husband's mouth.
He began to choke. He tried to spit them out.
"I will feed you," she repeated. She shoved more cakes in, ramming them down his throat. Her eyes burned with tears, and rage exploded through her. Her limbs trembled. She kept shoving cakes in. "Eat! Eat them!" Her voice rose to a shout. "Eat them all!"
She grabbed his jaw with one hand, forcing it open, and stuffed more cakes in, driving them down his throat as he sputtered. His hands flapped uselessly; he was too weak now to raise his massive arms. His legs twitched under his blanket, too heavy to kick. His face reddened, then began to turn blue.
"Eat them and choke, my dearest, beloved husband," Issari whispered and shoved the last cake in.
Three palace guards rushed forward. Their long, curled beards swayed, and they reached for their swords. They stared at her, eyes filling with rage. Issari faced them, allowing her anger to flow away. She let concern wash her face.
"He's choking!" she cried to them. "My dear husband is choking! Help him! Help him!"
If the guards had suspected her, that suspicion now vanished. They raced toward their king. The obese man had fallen over, his rolls of fat splayed out around him. His limbs twitched, and his face turned deep purple. He tried to speak but he could utter only choking sounds. The guards began to pound his chest and reach into his throat, desperate to revive him.
The guards' backs faced her. Issari tightened her lips, reached to one guard's belt, and grabbed his khopesh. She scurried backward, holding the sickle-shaped sword.
The guard spun toward her, eyes widening.
Issari raced across the hall, chain jangling behind her, and leaped into a cloud of hintan smoke. She held her breath. The purple haze hid her, and she swung her sword down hard. The blade slammed against the bronze shackle surrounding her ankle, nicking the metal.
"Concubine!" shouted the guard. He raced into the cloud, breathed in a mouthful of the spice, and shook his head wildly.
Issari swung her sword at him. The blade sliced through his throat and emerged bloody. Before he even hit the floor, Issari swung her blade down again. Again. Each swing chipped her anklet further. She forced herself to keep holding her breath, daring not breathe the hintan. Her lungs ached for air. She swung again. Guards shouted behind her.
Her sword slammed again into the anklet.
The metal snapped and the blade sliced her skin
Ten guards raced into the cloud.
Issari snarled, grabbed her magic, and shifted.
Her fire roared across the men. They burned and fell.
A white dragon, she stepped forward, her fire shrieking in an inferno, blazing across the hall. The flames
crashed forward, knocking down the other guards that raced toward her, spraying across the columns, and washing over the choking abina. The hall became a fiery oven. Issari—finally freed from her chains, finally a dragon, finally a warrior—tossed back her scaly head, and she roared. It was a roar of rage, of pain, of anguish—a roar for the long moons she had lingered here, half-alive; a roar for the man she loved, a man who suffered; a roar for her two homes. The cry shook the chamber, deafening. She knew all the city could hear.
When her howl and her flames died, she spun around to see the concubines.
Twenty filled the hall. They had fled as far as their chains would allow; they now cowered at the back of the hall, hugging one another. Their eyes were wide, their mouths agape. A few wept. All trembled.
The white dragon stared at them, smoke pluming from her nostrils. With a growl, Issari took a step closer. The concubines shrieked and hugged one another more tightly. But Issari ignored them for now. She stepped toward the strewn hookahs of hintan; the vessels lay among the cushions and upon the poolsides. One by one, Issari stomped upon them, shattering each glass vessel and letting its liquid spill.
"You are free from the chains of hintan," Issari said, her voice rumbling through the hall.
She stepped closer. The concubines crowded together, shivering. The chains ran from their ankles to columns across the hall; near the huddle of women, the chains had braided into a single strand. Issari stepped closer, ignoring the women's whimpers and screams. She lashed down her claws, cutting through the chains. They snapped.
"And you are now free from your chains of metal," the white dragon said. "Go. Leave this place. And tell all whom you pass that Issari Seran, the White Dragon of Requiem, the Queen of Eteer, will free all those enslaved, all those in darkness."
She whipped her tail over the concubine's heads, incurring screams. Her tail slammed into the hall doors, knocking them open. Fresh air and daylight flooded the hall. Issari inhaled deeply, breathing the free air for the first time in many days.
Requiem's Prayer (Book 3) Page 3
