I never wanted this life for you, Maev, he thought. He had imagined her growing up a fair woman, perhaps a gatherer of berries or a weaver of cloth. Instead she had become a fighter, traveling from town to town to punch and kick and bite for prizes. Today a black eye marred her countenance, and her lip was still swollen, the remnants of the fights he forbade and she kept getting into. Like him, she obeyed no rules, respected no leaders, and valued stubbornness over prudence.
If she insisted on having a nap in a meadow, Jeid thought, an approaching stampede of mammoths would not convince her to move.
“The Prince of Eteer, a dragon?” Jeid said, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s only a legend, daughter. The kingdom of Eteer itself is probably only a legend. A town the size of a forest? Houses built of stone and armies of thousands, each man bearing bronze? Towers taller than totem poles?” He hefted the shield that hung across his back. “No such place exists. These are only stories told around campfires.”
Maev growled and bared her teeth. She leaped onto another boulder; she now stood only a foot away from the rock he stood on. She gave his chest a shove so hard Jeid nearly toppled over.
“A legend!” Her eyes flashed. “You know what else some claim is a legend? Dragons. And look.”
With a roar, she leaped into the air and shifted.
Green scales rose across her. Her tail flailed. She flapped her wings, bending the trees that clung to the canyon walls. Rocks rolled and rearranged themselves, and even a boulder creaked upon the jutting stone pillar it perched upon. Maev ascended, rising above the canyon walls until she flew in open sky. She blasted out fire, a pillar of heat and light that filled the sky and rained down sparks.
“Maev, you fool!”
With his own roar, Jeid shifted too, becoming a burly copper dragon. He beat his wings, rose to the top of the canyon, and grabbed Maev’s tail. He tugged her down into safety like a man pulling down a flapping bird. Their wings slapped against the canyon walls. Maev was a strong, slim dragon, fast as wildfire, but Jeid was twice her size, a massive beast of horns like spears, claws like swords, and scales like shields. When he pulled her back to the canyon floor, they shifted back into human forms. She stood before him, clad in fur and leather again. She panted, her cheeks flushed.
“Did you see the legend?” She spat. “Dragons are real. I’m real. You’re real. Our family is real. And there are others. In the villages and tribes they speak of it—the kingdom of Eteer. Young Prince Sena is held captive by his cruel father, a father almost as cruel as you. He’s locked in a tower, Grizzly! Not even a canyon where you can see the sky, but a tiny cell, chained so he can’t shift.” She raised her chin. “I have to save him. I have to believe there are others, not just our family. I have to fly south and save him.” Her voice softened and she sighed. “You must learn to—just sometimes—let me go.”
But he could not let her go. He had lost one daughter already. He had lost his sweet Requiem. How could he lose Maev too?
He pulled her into his arms. Maev was a tall woman, taller than many men, and yet Jeid towered above her; she nearly disappeared into his embrace. She laid her head against his shoulder, and her tears dampened his fur tunic.
“My daughter,” he said, voice choked. “I already lost your mother to the arrows of those who hate us. I already lost your sister to their poison. I cannot bear to lose you too. What if you fly into a trap, like . . . like the trap that killed Requiem? Like the trap that almost killed me?”
“No trap can stop me.” She touched his beard, and her eyes softened. “Grizzly, I am strong, fast, a warrior. You will not lose me. I will free the prince, and I will bring him back here. You’ve always dreamed of finding others, of building a new tribe here, a tribe of Vir Requis. And yet we’ve found no others. Let me find one. Let me prove to you that we are not alone.”
A loud voice, speaking in falsetto, came from above them. “Oh Grizzly! I am a heroine from a tale. I rescue princes from towers, inspire bards with my bravery, and slay ogres with my bad breath.”
Jeid looked up and sighed again. Upon the canyon’s edge, looking down upon them, stood his son.
Two years older than his sister, Tanin sported a head of shaggy brown hair, and stubble covered his cheeks. While his father was beefy, Tanin was slender and quick. He wore leather breeches and a fur tunic, and he carried a bronze apa sword at his belt, the leaf-shaped blade as long as his thigh. A bow and quiver hung across his back, and a mocking smile tugged at his lips. A prankster, his only joy seemed to be tormenting his younger sister—stuffing frogs into her blankets, painting her face while she slept, and once even slicing off a strand of her hair, which Maev had avenged by giving him a fat lip.
Maev spun around and glared up at him. “I do not sound like that.”
Tanin smirked and gave a little pirouette, balancing on the edge of the canyon. He kept speaking in falsetto. “I’m so lonely here, Grizzly, and I’m as homely as the south side of a northbound mule. The only way I’ll ever find a mate is to travel to the edge of the world—where they haven’t heard of my foul temper—and snatch one up—“
“Tanin!” Smoke looked ready to plume from Maev’s ears. She leaped, shifted again, and flew up toward her brother. She landed atop the canyon, shifted back into human form, and barreled into him, knocking him down.
Jeid grunted and flew after them. When he reached the canyon’s edge, he resumed human form and stomped toward the wrestling siblings. Birches, oaks, and elms grew around them, hiding them from any rocs that might dare fly above. The escarpment sloped down to the south, leading to forested hills, valleys, and finally the river where they fished for bass and trout. Beyond that river lay the towns and villages of those who hunted them—a forbidden realm.
“Enough!” Jeid bellowed. He grabbed each of his children by the collar and lifted them up. They dangled in his grip, still trying to punch one another. “Stop your bickering, children, or I’ll bang your heads together like melons.”
“Ow!” said Tanin, struggling in his father’s grip. “What did I do?” The young man was twenty-five and tall and strong, yet in his father’s grip he seemed like a bear cub.
“You will stop tormenting your sister!” Jeid said. “And you will sway her away from this nonsense.”
He tossed both his children down in disgust. They fell into a pile of fallen leaves, rose to their feet, and brushed their woolen clothes and fur cloaks.
“Well . . .” Tanin stared at his feet and kicked around a pine cone. “I sort of . . . agreed to go with her.”
Jeid’s eyes widened. “You what?” he bellowed. “I expect some nonsense from Maev.” He ignored her protests. “But you, Tanin? I thought you were better than this.”
Tanin finally dared raise his eyes. “You taught me to be a smith, Grizzly. You taught me to forge copper, tin, and bronze.” He gestured at the wide, bronze sword that hung on his hip. “And then you shifted into a dragon. You let the town see you. And we had to flee here. Now I roam around from town to town, juggling raven skulls and dancing like a trained bear—a blind, clumsy bear with gammy legs.” Tanin sighed, took his bronzed raven skulls out of his pockets, and tossed them as far as they’d go. “You spoke of creating a tribe—a tribe of weredragons, a tribe called Requiem after my sister. You even gave us a fancy name—Vir Requis.” Tanin gestured around him. “Well, I don’t see a tribe. I see a gruff, hairy grizzly bear . . . and I see my father.” He winked at Maev.
With a growl, Maev leaped onto her brother again, wrestling him down and punching. This time Jeid did not try to stop them. He clenched his fists, lowered his head, and the pain cut through him.
“You’re right,” he said, his voice so soft he barely heard himself.
The siblings, however, paused from wrestling. They stared up at him, eyes wide.
Pain clutched at Jeid’s chest to remember that day, that horrible day Zerra, his own twin, had seen him shift into a dragon. Zerra had shouted the news across their town of Oldforge, raging
that his brother was diseased. Jeid had fled into the wilderness that day. Zerra had left Oldforge too—he joined a roaming tribe of roc riders and dedicated himself to hunting weredragons.
To hunting me, Jeid thought.
“You’re right,” he repeated, voice soft. “This is my fault. I’m the one who was caught. I’m the one who doomed us to banishment. I’m the reason you live in a canyon, that you roam from town to town for food and supplies, when you should be smiths in Oldforge, a true roof over your head, starting your own families.” His voice choked. “I failed you. I know this, and it hurts me every day, and—“
“Grizzly!” Maev said. She leaped to her feet and embraced him. Tanin joined her a moment later, awkwardly placing an arm around them.
“But I ask you, my children.” Jeid’s eyes burned. “I ask you to stay. Stay with me.”
Tears streamed down Maev’s cheeks. She hugged him tightly . . . but then she stepped away.
“I cannot,” she whispered. “I must find others. I must. If we’re banished, let us build this new tribe.” She leaped into the air and shifted. Her wings scattered dry leaves and bent saplings. She took flight with clattering scales, crashed through the canopy, and hovered above. “Goodbye, Father! Goodbye!”
With that, she spun and flew southward, leaving only a wake of smoke.
Tanin stood before his father, arms hanging at his sides, his cheeks flushed. He cleared his throat and clasped Jeid’s shoulder.
“I’ll look after her,” he said, voice hoarse. “I won’t torment her much. I—“
His voice choked and he seemed ready to shed tears. With a silent nod, the young man shifted too. He rose into the air, a red dragon, and flew off, calling his sister’s name.
Jeid grunted and was about to shift too, to fly after them and drag them home, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Let them go, my son.” The voice was deep and soft, a voice like waves on sand, like water in the deep. “Let them be.”
Jeid spun around, fists clenched, to see his own father.
At seventy years of age, Eranor still stood straight, his shoulders squared. His long white hair and beard flowed down to his waist. His glittering blue eyes stared from under bushy, snowy eyebrows. He still wore his old druid robes, blue wool hemmed in silver, and he bore a staff made from a twisting oak root. Upon its top, clutched within wooden fingers, shone a blue crystal the size of a heart. Eranor, once a healer and sage in their town, had been banished with the rest of his family—the first among them to find the magic, to shift into a dragon . . . and to call it a gift.
“They—“ For a moment, Jeid chocked on his words. “Those scoundrels are—“
“I know.” Eranor smiled sadly and patted his son’s shoulder. “They spoke to me of leaving. I gave them my blessing.”
“You what? Father! How could you do this?” Jeid felt his face flush. He swung his axe through the air, bellowed wordlessly, and kicked leaves and rocks. “I will kill them. Why would they not come to me first, why—“
“Because they’re frightened of you.” Eranor swung his staff, knocking down the axe. “They don’t call you Grizzly only because of your shaggy hair and beard. You terrify the poor things.”
“Those poor things should be terrified. I’m flying after them now, and when I catch them, I—“
“Jeid, come with me.” Eranor clasped his son’s arm, holding him in place. “Come to the watchtower.”
Jeid tossed down his axe with a grunt; it vanished into the fallen leaves. Huffing, he followed his father. They tramped between the trees, approaching the pillar of stone. It rose narrow and tall, a shard like a tower, a remnant of the ancient calamity that had fallen upon this land. Countless years ago, the druids said, half the world plunged down like a sinking loaf of bread, creating the escarpment—a great shelf of stone that ran into the horizon. When the land had collapsed, boulders fell, the canyon gaped open, and the watchtower rose from the earth like a blade. Jeid and his father climbed the stone pillar now. The top was barely wide enough for two; they stood pressed together.
Here was the highest point of the escarpment. Standing here, Jeid could see the land slope down before him, finally reaching treed hills and valleys; beyond them flowed the River Ranin. Upon the horizon, he could just make out pillars of smoke—the cooking fires of Oldforge. To his right, a waterfall crashed down the escarpment, feeding a stream.
Eranor gestured at the scenery. The wind whipped his beard and fluttered his wide sleeves. “The world.”
“Yes, Father, I know what the world is.”
“But your children do not.” Eranor smiled sadly. “You have traveled far and wide and seen many lands. They have never gone south of the River Ranin.”
The old druid turned around and pointed down. The canyon stretched beneath them, mossy boulders piled up in its depths. Vines and roots covered its walls. Several caves gaped open, leading to a network of tunnels and caverns.
“This canyon is a safe place,” Jeid said, his voice still gruff. “I built a new home for us here. Even my brother fears this place. Here is our fortress. Here we are safe behind walls of stone, safe to blow fire from caves upon any roc that might attack.”
He gestured around him. To a random traveler, the canyon would seem like nothing but a natural collapse of nature, a sculpture all of stone, wood, and moss. But Jeid saw a fort. Pillars of stone thrust up—watchtowers. Caves lined the canyon walls—secret holes for blasting flame. Boulders rose and fell like walls, some balanced upon one another—traps to crush invaders. In the wilderness, arrows could slay them. In the skies, rocs could hunt them. Here was safety. Here was survival.
“Aye,” said Eranor, stroking his white beard. “It’s a safe place for weary travelers such as you and me. But for Tanin and Maev . . . they need to believe there is more. They need to believe there is hope, that there are others like us.”
Jeid lowered his head. The wind fluttered his hair around his face. He winced to remember flying back to Oldforge only days ago—of Ciana betraying him, of the poisoned arrows thrusting into him. His wounds still stung, but worse was the pain inside him.
“Are there more, Father?” he said softly. “I told them that other dragons fly. I told them we can build a tribe, a tribe called Requiem. I told them tales to comfort them—when they were young, afraid, banished. I told them that our family is not diseased, that we carry a gift, that others in the world are like us.” He raised his eyes and stared at his father. “I told them the stories you told me when I was young. But I lied. And you lied.”
Eranor raised his eyebrows. “Lied, did I? Look at your shield, Jeid. Look at the shield that you yourself forged.”
With a grunt, Jeid slung the shield off his back. The bronze disk was inlaid with silver stars, forming a dragon-shaped constellation. Those same stars shone in the sky every night.
“Simple stars,” Jeid said. “A coincidence.”
Eranor shook his head. “You were born seeing those stars at night. But when I was young, the Draco constellation did not shine.” Eranor’s eyes watered. “A great gift has come to the world—the gift of magic, of dragons. I do not believe that it blessed only our family. In villages and wandering tribes, they speak of others—others who were hunted, caught, killed. Zerra hunts them; so do other tribes. But some must have escaped. Some must have survived. Your children need to believe this . . . and so do I. Even their old grandfather, white-haired and frail, must cling to some hope. Requiem might be a dream, but let us live that dream.”
Jeid slung the shield across his back again. “You are many years away from being frail, Father. And I wish I could believe too. But since . . . since they died . . .” His voice choked.
Eranor nodded and lowered his head, and his white beard cascaded like a waterfall. “I miss them too. As the stars blessed us with magic, so do they harbor the souls of our departed. Your wife and daughter look down upon you. And they are proud of you.”
Another story, Jeid thought. Ano
ther comforting fairy tale.
He wanted to believe, wanted to hope too, but Jeid could not. Hope led to despair.
He climbed down the pillar of stone. He entered his small cave in the canyon. He opened his wooden chest, pulled out Requiem’s old coat, and held the soft cotton against his cheek until darkness fell.
LAIRA
IN THE COLD AUTUMN MORNING, fog cloaking the camp and crows peering from naked trees, Laira stood tied to a stake, awaiting her death in fire.
The Goldtusk tribe gathered around the pyre, watching her, five hundred souls. They wore mammoth, wolf, and deer fur, and their strings of bone and clay beads hung around their necks and arms. Mist floated between them and their breath frosted. The tribe’s totem pole rose behind upon a hillock, the gilded mammoth tusk upon its crest all but hidden in the fog. The rocs stood tethered to the pole, scratching the earth and cawing, anxious for a meal; the birds had seen enough burnings to know they would soon feast upon charred flesh.
Branches, straw, and twigs rose in a pile beneath Laira’s feet. She watched a grub crawl down a birch branch, only for a robin to land, suck it up, and fly off. Strangely, the sight almost comforted to her.
I will burn. I will scream. I will rise to my mother. But the world will go on. Birds will fly, grubs will die, the leaves will fall and bud again. Maybe I’m as small and meaningless as that grub.
Zerra came walking through the crowd, heading toward her, holding a torch. A cruel smile twisted his features, lipless on the burnt half of his face. His fur cloak billowed in the wind, revealing his bronze sword—the most precious weapon in their tribe. When he reached her, he held his torch close, and the heat and smoke stung Laira and invaded her nostrils. She grimaced.
“Aye, you were a sweet one in my bed.” Drool dripped down his chin and he grabbed his groin. “It’s almost a shame to burn you. You were as hot and smooth as your mother was. I claimed her too, did you know? Your father abandoned her for me to take.” He smirked. “Mother and daughter—both mine to bed and burn.”
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