Finally something changed in his eyes. Finally some of that hardness shattered, and for a moment, his soul shone through, and it was hurt. It was as hurt as hers.
He took a step toward her. "Erry," he said softly. "Erry, I am sorry. I am so sorry."
Her tears fell. "I hate you."
"I know." Now his voice too cracked with pain. "You are my daughter. And you suffered. And I hate myself for this too. Erry, my child. I cannot change the past. I cannot make you forgive me. I cannot undo any of this or make any of it right."
She sobbed. "So what can you do?"
"Be with you now," he answered, reaching out to her. "I cannot heal you, and I cannot make you forget those years, but I can be with you now and always. You are my daughter. Let me learn how to love you. Let me learn how to be your father."
A shadow appeared behind him. A platinum-haired girl stepped around the captain. Slim, golden-skinned Miya walked across the sand, and her eyes shone with tears. She reached out to Erry.
"I have a sister," the girl whispered. "I have an older sister."
Erry wept. She looked away. She wanted to fly. She wanted to flee this, to return to her island, to roar her fire, to drown in the sea, or to be a wild beast, but not face this. Not feel her heart shatter. Not feel love fill her; love hurt too much. She had known too much pain to feel love now. It frightened her more than all the dragons and horrors in the world.
Yet she could not move, and when Miya embraced her, she could not resist. She wept against her sister's shoulder. Miya was only eighteen, two years younger than Erry, but taller and stronger. Erry had grown up with a tight belly, and she was so small, a runt of a thing, but her sister held her nonetheless, and she felt warm.
"I have a sister," Miya whispered and cried. "Erry, you are my sister. I see it in your eyes."
Erry looked up. Sila stood there, a foot away, looking upon them, still gruff, still the captain. But then his throat bobbed, and he sucked in air, and he took a great step forward and joined their embrace. Erry wanted to scratch and kick him, to break free and burn him, but she found herself holding him tight. She pressed her cheek against his chest and wept.
I have a sister, she thought. I have a father.
She spoke through her sob, voice shaking. "I'm so scared."
They held her close, keeping the night at bay, strong and warm and enveloping her.
"I know," Sila said. "But we'll be here with you. We'll help you face it. We'll help you heal. You'll never more be alone."
Held in their arms, Erry raised her head. She looked at the sky. The Draco constellation shone there, stars of Requiem.
"And... you don't care that I'm half Vir Requis? That half my blood is that of your enemy?"
Sila laughed and squeezed her tight. "The only thing I care about," he said, "is that you curse more than most sailors in my fleet."
She closed her eyes. "You're talking bloody pig shite," she whispered.
She stood in the sand, letting them hold her, and she thought of home. Mae had died, Tilla had betrayed her, and Leresy could go lick codpieces. Erry sniffed and rubbed her eyes.
I have a family.
VALIEN
They flew above Horsehead Island in the sunset, one dragon scarred and silver and brawny, the other green and slim and fast. They glided silently. They surveyed their army that mustered below.
"Three thousand Vir Requis," Valien said, voice nearly lost in the wind. "Two thousand Tirans strong enough to fight, each armed with an arquebus. A handful... against the might of half a million legionaries."
Here was his new Resistance, a patchwork. Only a seed of his original fighters remained. The rest Valien had woven in from other forces. A few hundred had served as Leresy's Lechers. A thousand had been men of Cain's Canyon. Now two thousand Tirans joined his cause, foreign warriors who could not shift into dragons. A patchwork, that was all. A few thousand souls who hated Frey enough to join here upon these beaches.
It wasn't enough.
Flying at his side, Kaelyn grinned, showing all her teeth. "Since when did we care about being outnumbered?"
Valien snorted a puff of smoke. "Since we lost most of our men in Lynport."
Since I lost my wife, he thought. Since I fled the capital with Rune in my arms and Marilion's blood in my nightmares. Yet he did not speak those words. He would not speak of Marilion to Kaelyn, this new woman in his life.
She lives! She lives in my dungeon, you fool!
Emperor Frey's words still echoed. They filled his mind now as they did every waking moment. Valien had seen his wife die. He had held her lifeless body. Her blood had coated his hands.
She lives!
He knew the emperor was lying. He knew that Frey only wanted to hurt him. Yet still Valien dreamed—even as he flew here above the island. Still her eyes haunted him, and still he saw her in the lighthouse, smiling at him, waiting for him always.
When I fly to free Rune, will I find you in that dungeon too? Have you been waiting for twenty years, Marilion?
He growled. No. Frey lied. Valien blasted fire. All he does is lie.
Kaelyn flew around him in a circle, nudged him with her tail, and smiled. "Come, Valien, let us land and sleep. Night falls. Tomorrow our battle begins."
Below upon the island, men and women sheathed swords, slung arquebuses over their shoulders, and retreated into huts and tents. Even flying high above, Valien could sense their fear; their every movement spoke of it. These people had seen war and death, and tomorrow they would fly back into the fire. Valien growled, forcing his own fear down his throat. The battle-hardened always fear war more than the green soldier.
The two dragons spiraled down and landed upon the shore. When they shifted back into humans, Valien looked at Kaelyn, and his heart twisted. The sun dipped into the sea behind her, painting her orange and gold. The wind blew her hair and dress, and she seemed so sad to him, a sea nymph lost upon the shore.
"Kaelyn," he began, voice low, but could say no more.
I couldn't bear to lose you too, he wanted to say.
Stay on this island in safety, he wanted to say.
I love you more than Requiem and all that's in it, he wanted to say.
Yet he could say none of those things. And so he only stood in the sand, looking at her, at the sunset in her hair, at her soft eyes, at her tanned and feline face. And Valien realized that for the first time in three years, when he looked upon Kaelyn, he did not see the woman she looked like. He no longer saw Marilion.
"I see you, Kaelyn," he whispered.
Here upon the beach, on this last night before the fire, she was not a ghost, but a living flame.
She embraced him and whispered into his ear, "I'm afraid."
He cupped her pale cheek in his hand. "I know."
She clutched his hands and squeezed them. "I'm afraid for Rune. And for our people. But mostly I fear this night, this darkness, this silence before the storm." She smiled shakily. "The last night before battle always seems so long, doesn't it?"
He nodded. "I never know if I want these nights to end quickly or last forever."
"To last forever," she said and touched his cheek. "I wish tomorrow would never come. Valien, will you share my hut tonight? Hold me on this long, dark night, for tomorrow the fire will burn."
They walked to her island home, a shelter woven of branches and leaves. Valien had spent his nights sleeping alone upon the island's peak, perched upon the hilltop in dragon form, always half awake and ready to fly should the Legions find their haven. Yet tonight he entered her hut, a little nook with a bed of grass, womb-like and warm.
He stood at the entrance. Kaelyn sat down upon the grass, pulled her knees to her chest, and looked up at him. Suddenly she laughed shyly and lowered her eyes.
"I'm sorry!" she said. "It's not very roomy, but... it's warmer and cozier than the hilltop you sleep on."
She looked down at her knees and her cheeks flushed.
Feeling awkward and cumbersome, far too clunky and rough, Valien cleared his throat. He sat beside her, leaned back, and allowed himself a smile.
"Very warm and cozy," he said. He lay down and placed his hands behind his head.
She lay on her side, facing him, her hair brushing his shoulder, her body an inch away from his. She looked at him silently, and Valien was struck by how young she seemed. She was only twenty. He was more than twice her age—and probably twice her weight. Lying beside her, he felt too old, too grizzled and ragged, a disheveled bear sharing a den with a graceful young lioness.
"Valien," she whispered as darkness fell, "can we win this?"
"We will win."
"Do you think... do you think Rune is still alive?" Her voice trembled.
Valien closed his eyes. He hadn't stopped thinking of Rune since arriving on this island. Yet tonight, Kaelyn's soft breath against him, he did not want to remember Rune or Marilion or Requiem. He wanted this one, last night in shadowy warmth. He wanted no more ghosts, only this woman beside him.
"I don't know," he said. "All I know is that we must fly. We must keep fighting. We must fly to victory or death. We are Requiem. Our wings forever seek our sky."
She nodded. "For so long I hid in darkness. For so many years, my father beat me, burned me, broke my body, and I hid under my bed, and in the dungeons of our tower, and in the shadows of my own mind." She held his hand tight. "You taught me to fly, Valien. And I will keep flying with you. Always."
He wiped a tear from her cheek. She gazed at him with damp, huge eyes, and her lips shook. She placed a hand on his cheek, leaned forward, and kissed his forehead. He smoothed her hair, and she kissed his lips.
She had never kissed him before. Her lips were small but full, pink and very soft, and they shot warmth through him, warmth better than all the rye he would drink in his years of darkness. She was too young for him, her hair too soft in his calloused fingers, her eyes too fair for the pain he carried. Yet he held her close, her body lithe and warm under his hands, and he kissed her, and she smiled. He had never known eyes so large and bright, even here in the shadows.
She climbed atop him. She began to unlace his shirt, her fingers shy and hesitant at first, then gaining speed, and soon she tugged at the cloth with the hunger of a starving man for food. His hands moved over her body—large, rough hands that could encircle her waist. He pulled the tunic off her, and she sat atop him, naked in the last glimmers of sunset. Her body was slim, her breasts small and pale, and he kissed her neck, and she buried her hands in his hair.
He wanted to stop this. She was too pure, too young and virginal, too full of life for an old, scarred wreck. But he could not stop. He needed this; he needed her now more than he'd ever needed his rye or vengeance or starlight. They moved faster, naked in the darkness, and the last light faded. He rolled atop her, and she gasped and moaned and clutched his shoulders. He held her hands, and she shuddered and arched beneath him, legs wrapped around his back. He moved above her. In the darkness he felt like a dragon flying through a storm, fleeing a burning city, roaring in pain as the terrors of the world chased him.
I couldn't save you, Marilion.
He clutched the babe in his claws and flew, rising and falling on the wind, seeking shelter in the night. Still he flew through that storm. Still that darkness wrapped around him.
Fire blazed through him, and Kaelyn gasped below him, and her fingernails almost tore his skin. She bit his shoulder to stifle her cry, and they lay still.
He rolled onto his back, and she nestled against him, her head on his chest, her body soft and small in his arms. She mumbled and smiled and slept, her breath playing against his neck like waves over the sand. He held her close and the pain dug through him.
Valien had bedded women during his long years of exile. He had found comfort with outcasts, wanderers, and urchins, women who came and left his life during the long years on the road. During his darkest hours, when the rye would not dull his pain, he had found comfort in brothels, and those memories still throbbed inside him like old scars. But he had not loved a woman until Kaelyn. He had not slept with one in his arms since Marilion.
He kissed her head, and his throat constricted, and he was afraid.
Love weakens us, he thought. I cannot lose you, Kaelyn. Tomorrow we fly to war. Tomorrow I will be afraid for Requiem... bust mostly for you. Mostly for you.
Only a beam of moonlight lit their bed. Kaelyn mumbled something in her sleep, nestled closer, and smiled softly. Valien lay awake for a long time, holding her close.
The dawn rose gray and rainy. As fighters took formation on the beaches, they frowned skyward, cursed, and muttered of signs. For many days they had lived here in sunlight and warmth; on the eve of battle, the sky gods raged. Wind whipped the palms, the waves crashed like watery demons, and the sand blew.
The land itself rages today, Valien thought. He stood on the beach, staring north into the roiling waters. Today the wrath of man and sky will descend upon you, Cadigus.
His fighters stood around him, standing still in their formations, staring north with hard eyes. The wind whipped their hair, and the rain stung their faces, yet they did not flinch. Five thousand fighters marshaled here. Vir Requis and Tirans stood together; today they were one army.
Valien looked at them one by one. He wanted to see warriors. He wanted to see howling, bloodthirsty fighters chanting for victory. He wanted to see a hammer ready to crush the Legions.
Instead he saw friends.
He saw families.
He saw Kaelyn, the woman he loved, her hair a banner of gold under the clouds.
We are not warriors, he thought. We are husbands, wives, brothers, sisters. We are outcasts and we are dreamers. We are a single light shining through the storm.
He shifted. He stood upon the sand as a dragon, roared so the island could hear, and blasted fire upward, a pillar to lead his people.
"Arise!" he howled, his voice still strangled but loud enough to peal across the beach. "Arise, dragons of Requiem! Arise, warriors of Tiranor! Today our hiding ends. Today we fly—to war, to glory, to victory!"
Around him, his fellow dragons shifted too. Three thousand scaly beasts roared, blew fire, and lit the storm.
Glory? he wondered. Victory? What did those have to do with war? War was not glorious. War never ended with victory. They flew to men screaming in the mud, limbs torn off, bones shattered. They flew to more grieving widows. To more pain. To more death and nightmares that would forever haunt them.
Yet Valien was a leader. He was heir to great rulers who had led Requiem in battle. Roaring upon the beach, he thought of those who had come before him: the legendary King Benedictus who had fought the griffins, the noble King Elethor who had defeated the phoenixes, and the wise Queen Lyana who had slain demons and raised Requiem from ruin.
I am no noble, brave leader like they were, Valien thought, the rain peppering his scales. I am too hurt, too haunted, too afraid.
Yet the people needed that leader now. They needed a king, a hero, a leader of legend. And so he roared for glory, for victory, for freedom. And so he gave them the courage he himself lacked.
The Tirans, men and women without the ancient magic, mounted the dragons. Each fighter wielded an arquebus, a saber, and a spear. Miya climbed onto Kaelyn's back, grabbed the horn of her makeshift saddle, and raised her chin. Her father, the gruff Sila, climbed onto Valien's saddle.
"So," said the merchant captain, "I've gone from leading a fleet of ships to a flight of dragons."
Valien grumbled beneath him. "You could steer your ships, captain. This dragon flies where he will." He gritted his teeth. "Hold on tight. You might have sailed through storms, but you've never flown through one."
With that, he kicked off the sand, beat his wings, and soared.
Around him, the dragons of Requiem rose, roaring fire through the rain. The wind whipped them, but their wings beat pow
erfully, driving them forward. They soared through the storm. The waves crashed below. Fire, wind, and water churned like a primordial world before creation.
They left the island behind. They left the children, the elders, and the infirm. They flew through the storm, five thousand souls, a drop against the ocean of the Legions. The sea rolled beneath them. A haze of darkness lay ahead.
Valien looked at Kaelyn, who flew at his side. Their eyes met through the rain. Her scales glimmered with raindrops, and her eyes were sad yet hopeful and knowing. He thought of last night, and the memory warmed him.
I fight for the memory of Requiem. I fight for a legacy of light. But I also fight for you.
The storm clouds broke ahead, and a single ray of light fell into the sea, a glowing column of gold. Valien flew toward it. It would guide him home.
TILLA
Rune hung on the chains before her, welts covering his body, his eyes swollen and his lips bleeding. He moaned, head lowered. If not for the chains that held up his arms, running from his wrists to the ceiling, he'd have collapsed.
"Tilla," he whispered through cracked lips. "Please."
She had not wanted it to come to this. Why wouldn't he just speak the words? Why wouldn't he join her, worship the red spiral with her?
"Oh, Rune," she whispered, punisher in hand. "Why do you do this? You can make it end. Just say the words..."
He looked up at her, blinking, his face pale and splashed with blood. And yet he managed to fix her with a stare, a deep gaze like the one he would give her at home. In his eyes she saw Cadport again—their youth in the sand and sun and their home burning. His lips were silent; his eyes did the speaking. And he was speaking to her of home... and of the woman she used to be.
"Hurt him some more!"
Shari stood at her side, wearing her butcher's apron, her voice thick with bloodlust, her eyes alight. She seemed like a woman in rapture. Her teeth were bared in a wolf's snarl. Her chest rose and fell as she panted. Rune's blood stained her clothes.
A Memory of Fire (The Dragon War, Book 3) Page 10
