"Why did you bring me here?" he asked, hearing the bitterness in his voice. "To gloat? To show off your comfort while I languish in a cell?"
Her eyes flashed with rage, then softened, and she sighed. She unbuckled her last plate of armor and stood before him in a woolen tunic. Suddenly she looked so much like the old Tilla—Tilla Roper from Lynport—that Rune could almost smell the sea.
"Not to gloat," she said. She began to load a plate with bread slices, slabs of ham, cheese, and grapes. "To share this with you. Come, sit with me and eat."
The armchair was wide enough for two. Tilla sat in one corner, the plate on her lap, and patted the space beside her.
"Will you unchain me before our meal?" he asked, standing before her.
"You know I can't. Not yet. Sit by the fire with me. Eat and drink with me. Please."
He wanted to refuse. He wanted to barge against the door, break it open, and run into the street. Yet he doubted he was strong enough. He was barely strong enough to stand. He was too famished, too thirsty, too tired. He sat by her in the armchair, his wrists still bound behind him, and let the flames warm him. It was a tight squeeze. Pressed against him, Tilla's body warmed him as much as the fire.
"It's a bit hard to eat with my wrists chained," he said.
She held a grape up for him. "Pretend I'm not your jailor, but your beautiful serving girl, feeding you grapes in luxury."
"Is that a joke, Tilla? You can joke at a time like this?"
"Eat."
He could not refuse it. He needed this food. He took the grape into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. The juices flowed down his throat, sweet and healing. He had never known food to taste this good.
They ate, the fireplace warming them. Tilla held out pieces of cheese, ham, and bread for him, and he ate those too. He drank wine from her mug.
"It feels almost like the old days," she said. "Sitting by the fire at the Old Wheel."
He swallowed another grape and looked at her. She stared at the fire, her face golden in the light, as if lost in memory.
"I thought you didn't like to remember," he said.
She looked at him, her eyes soft. "I always remember, Rune. Always. I never forget. We can have a life again. Together. Here in this home." She held his knee and leaned closer, bringing her face but an inch from his. "I spoke to the emperor about it already. He will let you live here with me." A tear trailed down to her lips. "You and me together again. Always."
He looked away from her at the crackling fire. "And at what cost? I would have to serve him."
"You would. You would join the Legions. You would train. The training is difficult, but you will survive it, and I will be there, watching over you. You will fight for Cadigus, a soldier like me. You will raise his banners and bear his sigil. You will hail him in the days like I do. But at night, Rune... at night you can come back here to me."
Suddenly the food tasted stale.
"I cannot serve him," he said. "How can you serve him, Tilla? How can you wear that armor? Bear the red spiral? Worship the man who killed my father, who burned our home, who crushes Requiem under his heel?"
"Because I want to live!" She grabbed his cheeks and forced his face back toward her. Her eyes flashed and her lips peeled back. "Because I'm a survivor. Damn it, you don't have to love him. Do you think I do? Do you think anyone does? Do you think I love the man who burned our home? You don't have to love him, Rune. You only have to fear him."
"Is that what you do? Fear him? Are you a warrior or a coward?"
"A survivor," she said. "I joined the Legions and I served him. I did what I had to do to live. And I'm trying to save your life too. Call it cowardice if you will. I'd rather be a live legionary than a dead resistor."
Rune thought of Kaelyn again, the woman who hid in burrows, crawled through the mud, and fought through fire and rain. He thought of Valien, his guiding star, the man who lived in ruins but sang for light. They were brave. They were noble. Did they even still live?
"I don't want to die," he said, Tilla's hand still holding his knee. "But I have to believe they're still alive somewhere. Kaelyn. Valien. The others. I have to believe there is still hope for them. For Requiem. And for you, Tilla."
She blinked tears from her eyes. She rose to her feet.
"Come with me, Rune. I want to show you something."
She helped him to his feet and headed toward a staircase. They climbed upstairs into a bedchamber. A clock stood upon a bureau. An iron spiral hung upon the wall over a bed. Outside the window, beyond a few snowy trees, loomed the towers of Castra Draco.
"What did you want to show me here?" Rune said, lips twisting bitterly. "The spiral that hangs over your bed? The fortress that shadows you even here?"
She shook her head. "No. I wanted to show you this."
She stepped toward her bed and lifted something off her pillow. When she turned back toward him, a shaky smile trembled on her face, and her eyes were moist.
A string of seashells lay in her palm.
Rune blinked and felt his own eyes dampen. The memories pounded through him. Once more he was walking along the beach under the cliffs. The waves glistened in the sun and splashed over his bare feet. A boy of fourteen, he collected seashells into a pouch, choosing only the nicest ones. He strung them along a string for her. He gave her this gift for her birthday, and she laughed and tousled his hair.
"You kept it," he whispered.
She placed it around her neck and touched his cheek. "It means more to me than all the spirals and forts in the world. It means more to me than my sword, than my shield, than my empire. It's our childhood. It's our memory. It's our love."
She kissed him. Her lips were full and soft, and her tongue sought his, and her fingers smoothed his cheeks. It tasted like salt—the salt of her tears and the sea. Rune closed his eyes and he hated her, and he hated what she fought for, and he loved her.
"I want you to come into my bed," she said. "And I want to make love to you. Because I love you, Rune Brewer. I always have, and I can't bear to lose you."
She took him into his bed. It was soft and warm and so was she. She removed their clothes, held him close, and kissed him again. Their bodies moved under the blankets, a dance more intoxicating than wine, than all their flights over the sea. He had never lain with a woman before, but this felt right. This was home.
When it was done, they lay together in bed. He lay on his back, and she leaned up on her elbows, kissed his lips, and played with his hair.
"I want us to stay here forever," she said. "Stay with me here."
He looked at her pale face, her smooth black hair, her dark eyes that spoke of so many years and lost memories. He wanted to stay here with her. He wanted to choose her kisses, not the whips and the rack.
He looked up at the iron spiral that hung above them. He looked out the window at the fortress towers. And he thought of Kaelyn—his comrade, his friend, the woman he had fought with. He thought of her still fighting in the mud.
"Flee with me," he said to Tilla. "Flee south with me, and we'll fight him together. But I cannot join him. I cannot serve him. Not for you. Not for anything. Flee with me south and fight with us... or return me to my cell."
Her tears splashed against his chest. She took him downstairs. She flew with him. And she returned him to his cell.
ERRY
She wandered along Maiden Island, tears in her eyes.
"Tirans," she whispered. "My father's people."
She reached into her pocket, found her father's medallion, and clutched it so hard it hurt.
All her twenty years, Erry had lived among Vir Requis, her mother's people, an ancient race with the magic to become dragons. She had lived with them in Lynport upon the docks. She had served with them in the Legions. And finally, she had spent moons with ragged Vir Requis refugees upon Horsehead Island. Erry had inherited Requiem's magic from her mother, and she too could become a dragon, unlike her fa
ther's people. Yet she had always felt the outcast. A half-breed. The scrawny bastard of a whore and a foreign sailor.
But here... here on this southern island shaped like a sleeping woman... here the dormant half of her, her southern desert blood, blazed with waking fire.
"They're real, Scraggles," she whispered to her dog. "Stars, they survived. They live. My people."
Thousands wandered the camp around her. Erry had imagined Tirans to be short and scrawny like her; she had always blamed her father's blood for her diminutive frame. And yet they were a tall people, maybe even taller than Vir Requis. Their hair shone a platinum so pale it was almost white. Their eyes were blue as sapphires, their skin golden. Rune had once shown her a painting of Tirans he kept hidden, and in that painting, they wore golden armor and rode horses between palisades of columns. Yet here around her, they lived as wild islanders, clad in leaves and homespun; only a few of the elders still wore old, embroidered cotton of the desert.
Erry wiped tears from her eyes.
"Damn it, Scraggles," she whispered, then knelt and hugged her dog. "We... we could have been here with them. All those years I spent on the docks. All that damn year in the Legions. All those cold, lonely, painful nights in Requiem... and they were here. In sunlight. Happy. Alive. I could have been here with them."
Scraggles licked the tears from her cheeks.
Erry kept moving through the camp. Elders sat upon logs, singing old songs about Tiranor: her golden dunes, her lush oases of fig and palm trees, her fallen temples of sandstone and platinum, and her wisdom lost. Children scampered about, laughing, the sun shining upon their pale hair. Young couples walked hand in hand, whispering and smiling secret smiles. They were refugees. Their land had fallen. And yet still they seemed to Erry happier than she herself had ever felt.
"Do you think they'd let me live with them?" she asked Scraggles. She bit her lip and her eyes still stung. "Or would I be an outcast here too?"
She was half Tiran, that was true, but she looked Vir Requis. Her hair and eyes were brown, not platinum and blue. She was scrawny and short, not tall and noble. She spoke with the rough accent of Requiem's southern coast—odd enough among northerners like Leresy, Kaelyn, and Valien—not the flowing lilt of the desert.
"But I have this," she whispered. "I have my father's medallion."
She pulled it from her pocket and slung it around her neck. She had never dared wear her father's memento in Requiem, not in that empire that had burned the desert and hunted its people. Yet here she could wear it freely, and she clutched the silver. The medallion was shaped like a sunburst, symbol of Tiranor, and it had often comforted Erry during the long, cold nights. Her father, a Tiran sailor, had paid for her mother with this medallion, hiring her for a night of pleasure before sailing back south. Some would see it as shameful—the cost of a whore—but to Erry, the medallion had always brought hope. It had always been a symbol of another world, a better place.
And now I've found that place, she thought, looking around the camp of sunlight, greenery, and noble folk of her blood.
A young woman was climbing a fig tree ahead. She was reaching for the fruit, but the figs hung just beyond her grasp. When she saw Erry, the youth waved and cried out.
"Can you help me?"
Erry stepped closer, hesitant. A life upon the docks had taught her to fear strangers; those who asked for help often wanted more than she could give.
"What do you want?" she said, approaching the fig tree. Could this girl somehow see her Tiran blood, and would she mock her for it, call her a half-breed and bastard?
"I need a push," the girl said. "Please?"
She clung to the tree trunk, several feet above the ground, straining to reach a branch heavy with fruit. Yet far as she stretched, the branch remained an inch out of reach.
Erry realized her belly was rumbling. If she helped, perhaps the girl would share the prize. She wove her fingers together, forming a little shelf with her hands, and pushed up the girl's foot. The young Tiran snagged some fruit, smiled, and hopped down to the ground.
"Thanks," she said and grinned. Her teeth were very white in her golden face. Her long hair was almost as white, a smooth flag that swayed in the breeze. Her eyes seemed like sapphires to Erry, blue and bright.
"Now give me half of those fruits," Erry said.
The girl laughed. "You deserve them, fair enough. Come, eat with me." She reached out her hand. "My name is Miya."
Erry stared at the oustretched hand, not moving. So many times upon the docks, people had offered her food, but they had always wanted something in return. So many times, Erry had accepted an outreached hand, only to have that hand beat her later. So many men had offered food and shelter for her body. Leresy too had offered a smile and meal, only for him to later use and strike her.
How can I trust anyone? Erry wondered.
As the girl's smile faded, Erry lowered her head.
I can't be the old Erry here, she thought, afraid and angry and hiding. These are Tirans. Their blood pumps through me. Miya is only a youth, not a man who lusts for me. I'll have to be different here, or I'll forever be the dock rat.
She reached out, grabbed Miya's hand, and shook it.
"My name is Erry. Let's eat."
They sat upon a flat boulder under the shade of a pine. Wildflowers and fallen needles spread around them. The hillside sloped down at their feet, leafy with mint bushes, mulberry trees, and swaying wild oats. Far below, a golden shore faded into the sea. For a moment, the two young women sat silently, watching the waves and eating the figs.
"Is it true?" Miya finally asked, breaking the silence. "Your leader, the man Valien... he says he can defeat Frey." She looked over at Erry, her eyes wide. "Do you believe him?"
Erry shrugged and took another bite. She chewed for a moment, considering.
"I don't know. Sometimes I think he's mad."
"And yet you fight with him."
Erry allowed herself to laugh, but her eyes stung. "Frey burned my home. And so I fight. I have nowhere else to go. Can we win? I don't know. But fighting is better than just lying down and dying."
As she spoke those words, Erry didn't know which home she meant: Lynport... or the desert kingdom she had never seen.
Miya bit into a second fig. "He burned my home too. I've never seen Tiranor. I was born here on this island. But my father... he speaks of home often." She gazed across the sea as if she could see that distant, fallen kingdom. "He said that most of Tiranor was just desert—dunes, mountains, and endless plains of sand. But a great river flowed through it, the Pallan, a giver of life. Oases grew alongside its banks, lush with fruit trees, shade, and a thousand kinds of birds. Limestone towers rose among them, capped with platinum. Great cities sprawled between the trees, centers of learning, their libraries and universities as large as palaces." Miya's eyes gleamed. "I wish I could have seen Tiranor. But she is fallen now. We are all that remains."
Erry stared across the sea, trying to imagine it.
"It sounds a lot nicer than Requiem," she said. "I wish I could have seen it too." She reached under her collar, pulled out her silver amulet, and showed it to Miya. "Can you read the letters here? I've never known what it says."
Miya's eyes widened. "This... this is Tiran silver! This is the sunburst of our god. How did you get this?"
Erry glared. "I didn't steal it, if that's what you mean."
"I didn't mean..." Pain filled Miya's eyes. "I'm sorry. Let me see."
The young Tiran girl held the amulet, leaned closer, and examined it.
"Well, can you read it?" Erry said. She herself had never learned to read; she didn't even know whether Tiranor and Requiem used the same letters.
Miya nodded and closed her eyes, saying nothing.
"Well, what does it say, damn it?" Erry scowled. "Won't you tell me?"
Maybe she had been wrong to trust this girl. Would Miya accuse her of being a thief? All her life u
pon the docks, fellow girls would accuse Erry of being a prostitute, a burglar, and a bastard. Men would beat Erry; girls would taunt her, their words more painful than blows. Was Miya just one of them, a pretty young thing who thought it fun to mock the orphan?
"Well, forget it then, damn you!" Erry said. She yanked the amulet back, rose to her feet, and was about to stomp away... and froze.
Tears were flowing down Miya's cheeks.
Erry stared. "Bloody stars, what...?" She sat back down. "Miya, why are you crying?"
The young Tiran sniffed and smiled tremulously.
"The words on your amulet... My father used to speak them. I haven't heard them in many years. Your amulet bears our Old Words, the prayer of Tiranor. We Will Never Fall." She blinked tears from her eyes. "For thousands of years, our people spoke those words in the desert."
Erry felt all her rage flow away, and her own eyes stung. She clutched the amulet to her chest.
"We will never fall," she repeated in a whisper. "I like that."
Miya sighed and lowered her head. "And yet we did fall. Perhaps that prayer is meaningless now."
Erry shook her head mightily. "We did not fall. Look around you." She swept her arm around, gesturing at the camp. "I see thousands of survivors. I see a new life for our people. This amulet is right. We will never fall."
The young woman looked up and tilted her head. "Our... people? Erry, aren't you—"
Before she could complete her question, a shout rose from among the trees.
"Erry Docker! Damn you, you filthy urchin. Docker, where are you?"
Erry sighed. It was Leresy.
"Oh, bloody bollocks," she said and watched the outcast prince emerge from the trees.
Leresy stomped forward, hands on his hips, his chin raised with the same old vanity of royalty. A few dried leaves topped his golden hair instead of a crown, and he wore only tattered rags rather than finery, but he still strutted around as if he owned the world.
A Memory of Fire (The Dragon War, Book 3) Page 7
