Bane of Benedictus, Mirum remembered. That is what they would call them.
She sat before them on her horse, sword at her side, the wind streaming her cloak and hair. She placed her right fist on her heart, Dies Irae's salute of loyalty.
Riders sat upon the three griffins, staring down at her. Each wore steel armor filigreed in gold, a sword in a jeweled sheath, and a snowy cape. The man who rode the largest, foremost griffin was especially resplendent. He looked like a god of wealth. Sapphires, rubies, and emeralds encrusted his helmet. Garnets and amber formed a griffin upon his breastplate, and golden weave ran through his samite cloak. His gilded helmet hid his face, the visor shaped as a griffin's beak, but Mirum saw his arm, and she knew him at once.
Mirum had been there that day, the day Dies Irae lost his left arm. She had been sixteen when the battle of Lanburg Fields raged. Her father had been dead for only a moon, and already she, Lady Mirum, rode to war under Dies Irae's banner. He insisted she ride at his side, reveled in the thought of her fighting for him, he who'd murdered her father and raped her. She watched, weeping, as Dies Irae killed the last Vir Requis, the remains of that ancient race. She watched, shivering, as the legendary Benedictus—King of Requiem and brother to Dies Irae—bit off her tormentor's arm. You wept like a babe at my feet, Mirum remembered, but she had felt no pity for him. She had not seen Dies Irae since that night... not until this gray morning, until he arrived at her doorstep, arrived with his griffins and soldiers and old, pulsing pain.
Like a body tossed into the sea, you return to my shore, rotten and smelling of old blood. Sol nickered beneath her and cantered sideways as if feeling her pain.
"Go! Go!" the gulls cawed. Flee!
But Mirum did not flee. Could not. She would not abandon what she hid here.
"Hail Irae!" she called, as she knew she must.
Upon his griffin, Dies Irae nodded to her, a golden god. He said nothing.
He wore a new arm now, she saw. It was an arm made of steel, encrusted with garnets like beads of blood. Instead of a fist, the arm ended with a mace head, spiked and cruel. It glistened even under the overcast sky.
Mirum dismounted her horse and curtsied before him.
Please, Earth God, she prayed, staring at the stone ground. Please don't let him find what I hide here.
She heard the three riders dismount their griffins, heard boots walk toward her. Soon she could see those boots as she curtsied, spurred leather boots tipped with steel. Then the spiked mace—the iron fist of Dies Irae's new arm—thrust itself before her face.
"You may kiss my hand, child," came a voice, the chilly voice Mirum remembered from a decade ago, the voice that had murmured in her ear as he raped her by her father's body.
Though disgust filled her, Mirum kissed the mace head, a hurried peck of her lips. It tasted like coppery blood.
Please, Earth God, please. Don't let Irae find him....
"Your Grace," Mirum said, head still lowered, fingers trembling.
"Rise, child," he said, and she straightened to face him. She could not see his face, only that jeweled visor shaped like an eagle's head, and she shivered. Dies Irae's lieutenants noticed and laughed—cold, cruel laughter like the sound of waves against stone. One was a tall, gaunt man covered in steel, his visor barred like a prisoner's mask. The other was a woman in white leggings, her breastplate molded to fit the curve of her breast, a gilded visor hiding her face. Both bore swords with grips shaped as talons.
Dies Irae turned to face them, those riders bedecked in gold and steel, and clucked his tongue. "Now now, it is impolite to laugh." He turned back to Mirum, standing too close, mere inches away. "You must forgive my riders. They do not often find themselves in the presence of a lady, and they are weary from a long flight. If you do not mind, we would much like to break our fast here, and to drink wine from your cellar. Would you be so kind as to host us at your home, if only for an hour?"
Mirum bowed her head. It was not a request, she knew, but a command. Her stomach roiled. The memories and fear pounded through her. "It would be an honor, my lord."
She led them down the outcrop of stone, her boots confident upon the moss. Waves crashed at their sides. Behind her, she heard the griffin riders struggling and muttering curses. She could walk this damp, mossy stone as though walking across a grassy meadow, but most struggled for balance upon it, and the spraying waves did little to help. Still, Mirum would not turn to offer aid, nor would she slow her pace. Let them slip upon the moss. Let them fall against the boulders, and drown in the sea at the foot of my tower.
Her prayers went unanswered. Soon she reached the doors of Fort Sanctus, towering doors of chipped oak, the wood dark with mold, the knobs brown with rust. The griffin riders, still cursing under their breath, came to stand beside her. Ignoring them, Mirum placed her hands on the doors, leaned against them, and they creaked open on rusty hinges.
"By the Sun God, the place still stinks," Dies Irae muttered, though still Mirum would not turn to face him. Her hall might be dusty, its walls mossy, its tapestries tattered... but it did not stink. It smelled like salt, like seaweed, like sand and like horse. This was no stench, but a smell Mirum loved. It had stunk once, that night ten years ago when Dies Irae had slain her soldiers, her servants, and her father.
Mirum dared glance at Dies Irae's neck. She saw a golden chain there, its links thick. Those links disappeared under Dies Irae's breastplate. Does he wear the amulet, the Griffin Heart? she wondered, fingers trembling. She imagined leaping forward, tugging the chain, stealing his amulet, stealing his griffins. But of course, armies of Vir Requis had fought to reclaim the Griffin Heart, to reclaim the power to tame and control griffinflesh. Those armies had failed. What chance would she have?
Dies Irae jerked his head to one of his lieutenants, the gaunt man with the barred visor. Hand on the pommel of his sword, the man moved to guard the doors.
God, he knows, Mirum thought. Her heart pounded. He knows what I hide here, he knows of him, he's blocking his escape. God, why did I let the boy fly? Somebody must have seen him, and now Dies Irae has come here, come to this hall with his sword and his promise of blood.
Mirum clutched her fingers behind her back to hide their tremble.
"Please sit at my table, my lord," she said. She stared at that chipped old table, not daring to look at Dies Irae. Her heart thrashed. "I will serve you bread and fish."
With a snort, the female griffin rider removed her helmet, and Mirum felt herself pale. She recognized this face, and it sent shivers through her. The woman was beautiful, achingly so, with icy green eyes, red lips, and cascading golden locks. She couldn't have been older than eighteen, yet none of youth's life nor folly seemed to fill her; her face was cold and cruel as a statue.
Gloriae.
Dies Irae's daughter.
As Mirum watched, Gloriae spat onto the floor. Her spit landed at Mirum's feet.
"Bah! Bread and fish," Gloriae said, those perfect red lips curling in disgust. "We've not flown for hours to this place to eat bread and fish. Have you no boar? No deer or fowl? What kind of hall do you run, you seaside waif?"
Mirum felt the blood rush back into her cheeks. She knew the stories. She knew that King Benedictus had believed this young woman to be his own daughter, not the daughter of Dies Irae's rapes. Mirum, however, saw only the cruelty of Dies Irae in this one. She remembered the stories of Gloriae killing her first Vir Requis at age six, of killing ten more when she was but eight.
Trained from childhood in malice and murder, Mirum thought, for a moment rage overpowering her fear.
Disgust filled her mouth, tasting of bile. She forced herself to curtsy before Gloriae. "Forgive me, my lady. This is a but a simple seaside fort, the home of waifs, not the abode of great, illustrious nobles such as yourself." She wondered if Gloriae would detect the sarcasm in her voice. "But if you please, I would be glad to serve fine ale with your meal."
Gloriae stared at her, eyebrows rising over those
icy green eyes. Her white cheeks flushed just the slightest. She took a step forward, drew her sword with a hiss, and placed its cold tip against Mirum's neck. Mirum stiffened. The blade was white steel, beautiful and glinting, its base filigreed in gold, and Mirum could imagine Vir Requis blood flowing down its grooves.
"Ale, you say?" Gloriae said softly, regarding her, one eyebrow raised. She tilted her head, her expression almost quizzical. "No fine wine for us great, illustrious nobles? Maybe instead of red wine, I shall content myself with red blood."
Mirum stared back, not tearing her eyes away, and clenched her jaw. They might kill her now, she knew. Kill me if you must, but don't look in my tower. Please, Earth God, don't let them see what I hide.
Dies Irae stepped forward. He placed a hand on Gloriae's shoulder. "Now now, sweet daughter," Dies Irae said, voice echoing inside his eagle helm. "This is not the time for blades. Mirum is being the most gracious host she can, for one who lives in a seaside ruin. Let her serve us her bread, her fish and her ale. We are not above the simple pleasures of peasants, are we?"
Mirum felt the rage boil in her, and she swallowed hard. Hers was an old, noble line. Her father had ruled many forts, as had his father, and many past generations of their line. Mirum was descended of great blood, and yet Dies Irae saw her as a waif, a fisherwoman barely worthy to serve him. Still she curtsied again. "I have no fine wine, but my ale is cold, and my bread warm."
Finally Dies Irae removed his helmet, and Mirum saw his face for the first time in ten years. It froze her blood. Here he was, here was this same face, the face that had haunted her for so long. It was ironic, she thought, that he looked so much like the beasts he rode. His face was like the face of an eagle, cold, handsome, his skin a golden hue. His hair was slicked back, blond streaked with gray, and his nose was hooked like a beak. His mouth was a thin line; his lips were so thin and pursed, he seemed almost to have no lips at all. A few more creases marred that face now, and more gray filled his temples, but it was the same face from ten years ago. The cold, golden, griffin face.
He was born to Vir Requis, Mirum remembered suddenly. He had their noble face, their high forehead. But of course, Dies Irae had been born without the gift, without the ancient blessing, without the magic to become a dragon. It must have been so hard, she reflected, shocked to find pity fill her. To be firstborn of Requiem's king, yet lacking the gift. To be cast aside. To grow to hate that gift, to seek to destroy it. So much pain must dwell in him.
That thin mouth curved into a smile, a cold smile, a smile that made that face even harsher, crueler. "Do you fear me, child?" he asked. "You tremble."
She lowered her head, realizing that she had stared at him. "It's been long since the presence of greatness has entered my hall. Forgive me, my lord. I'll fetch your food and drink."
Dies Irae sat at the chipped oak table. Gloriae removed her white leather gloves, stared at a wooden chair distastefully, and too sat down. The third rider—the gaunt, silent man—stayed to guard the door. His barred helm still hid his face.
Mirum hurried out of the hall. She paced downstairs into the cellar, legs trembling, heart thrashing. The cellar was a dark, dusty place carved into the rock beneath Fort Sanctus. The roar of waves was loud here, as were the smells of moss, dried fish, sausages, bread rolls, and oak barrels of ale. She had thought to find Julian sweeping the cellar floors. When she did not see him, she remembered that he had taken his donkey to town that morning, gone to buy turnips and onions and spices. He will probably buy me a gift, too; flowers for my room, or a simple necklace of beads. Dear old man. She was glad that he was gone. He was safe away from this fort. If Julian had been here, Dies Irae would have killed him for sport. Mirum was sure of that.
She collected pewter mugs from a shelf, opened a keg of ale, and began filling the mugs. As she worked, her mind raced. Had the boy in her tower seen the griffins? Surely he had. Surely he knew to fear them. She had rehearsed this day with him many times—every night. She would clutch his shoulders, stare into his eyes, and force him to repeat what she had taught him.
"Stay in the tower," he would say, bored with the words he would recite every night for ten years. "Do not turn into a dragon. Do not fly. Do not try to escape. Stay hidden, stay silent, stay inside my barrel."
Please, Kyrie, Mirum thought as she placed the mugs of ale upon a tray. Just don't panic. Just don't fly.
She found some chipped wooden plates and began loading them with smoked fish and bread rolls. Ten years ago, she had found the boy lying in the devastation of Lanburg Fields. Dies Irae had been flown away, armless, pale, near death. Benedictus the Black, King of Requiem, had fled. The other Vir Requis all lay dead upon the field, the last of their kind. Most of Dies Irae's soldiers had left the bodies to rot, but a squad of men, their white cloaks now red, had remained to move among the bodies, to search for the wounded and spear them. When they saw Mirum moving between the bodies too, they laughed, mocked her, called dirty words her way. She was so numb, she barely heard.
When she first saw the boy, she thought him dead. He looked six or seven years old, thin, covered in blood. Many young Vir Requis had come here to fight, flushed out of hiding with their elders, but this one was the youngest she saw. He did not move at first, but when Mirum stood above him, crying over his body, he opened his eyes.
"Mama," he whispered, voice high and soft.
"I... I'm not your mama," Mirum whispered back, glancing behind her, praying the men in bloody cloaks did not hear.
The boy spoke again, tears on his ashy cheeks. "I want my mama."
She had wrapped him in her cloak that night, placed him on the saddle of her horse, her good horse Sol. He was so small, so thin, he could be mistaken for a bundle of clothes or firewood. She sat behind him in the saddle and galloped, galloped harder than she ever had, galloped over bodies and fields drenched in blood, galloped away from the mocking men and the death of an ancient race, galloped home. To Fort Sanctus. To her sanctuary by the sea, to the fresh graves of her men, of her father, of her old life.
Kyrie Eleison was his name. She kept him in her tower, this young Vir Requis, kept him hidden for ten years now. She had stood by Dies Irae that day, stood with his banners as he murdered the last survivors of Requiem. She too was stained with their blood. If she could save one, just the life of one boy, maybe... maybe she would find redemption. Maybe the blood would be washed from her hands. So she had hidden him, and raised him, and prayed every night to forget the sight of all those bodies, the bodies of her men, of her father, of Kyrie's people. She tried to toss those memories into the sea, to let the waves claim them. For ten years she had gazed upon this angry sea, praying to forget.
She stepped back into her hall, tray of ale and food in hands.
Mirum set the table silently, eyes lowered. As she worked, Dies Irae stared at her body, and his eyes told her, I hunger for you more than for your food. Feeling blood rise to her cheeks, Mirum was acutely aware of her riding dress, how its wool clung to her, still wet from the waves. She forced herself to suffocate the memory of that night, that endless night of rapes. She had to bite her lip, to shut her eyes, to swallow the anger and continue setting the table. Anger would kill her now. She raised her eyes and glanced at the door, but the gaunt man still guarded it, arms crossed, face hidden. Mirum wanted to flee. Every instinct in her body screamed to run, to escape, to jump out the window if she must, even if jumping meant crashing against the boulders and drowning broken in the sea. Yet she could not. She had to stay here, serve these riders, protect Kyrie. She had vowed ten years ago to protect him. She had done so since. She would do so now... whatever it took.
When she placed the last plate on the table, Dies Irae reached under her skirt to find and squeeze the soft flesh beneath. Mirum's breath froze and her heart leaped. I still have Father's sword at my waist, she thought and trembled. I can still draw it, kill at least one of them, maybe two before they kill me. I'm good with the sword. But no. She could not die now.
Not as Kyrie hid in her tower; she owed him to live, to protect him, no matter what Dies Irae did to her.
"Father, must you while I'm around?" Gloriae said, staring distastefully at Dies Irae's hand up Mirum's skirt. She sipped her ale, wrinkled her nose, and spat it onto the floor. "Honestly, Father, you can be as tasteless as this ale."
Dies Irae laughed, and blessedly, his hand left Mirum's skirt. She exhaled shakily.
Dies Irae sipped his ale and his thin, curved mouth curved even further. He put the mug down, lines of disgust appearing in that golden skin of his. "I certainly would hate to appear as coarse as this drink," he said.
These ones rarely drank cheap ale, Mirum knew, but were used to sipping fine wines. Their tastes had to be as exquisite as their jeweled armor and priceless samite capes. Dies Irae pushed the mug away, his eagle face frowning, and reached out to grab Mirum's arm.
She couldn't help but yelp, which made Gloriae laugh, a cold and beautiful laugh like ice cracking. But Dies Irae did not laugh. His fingers clutched her so painfully, Mirum wanted to scream. It felt like his fingers could tear into her, pull the muscles off her bone. She had not known fingers could cause such pain.
"Mirum... sweetness," Dies Irae said, voice soft, cold, like a slow wave before a storm. His eyes pierced her, steady and dark blue. They bored into her, a stare so cold and sharp, it almost hurt her skin.
"My lord," she whispered, unable to talk any louder. She wanted to scream or faint from the pain.
He tightened his grip on her, fingernails digging, and she bit her lip hard. "Sweetness," he said, "do you know why I am here today? Do you know why I've come to this wretched, seaside ruin of a fort, this pile of moldy stones by this cesspool you call a beach?"
She wanted to hit him, to spit at him, to draw her sword with her free hand and run him through. Kyrie, she thought. I must live for Kyrie. He has nobody else. And neither do I.
Song of Dragons: The Complete Trilogy Page 2
