"All right, old man," Rune said. "You're going to slow down soon, and when you do, I'll be the one making bruises."
With a grin that looked almost like a snarl, Valien nodded and lashed his sword, and the wooden blades clattered.
That evening, the Resistance gathered in the fallen hall of old kings, the place where Rune had first met Valien. Candles burned upon the craggy walls. Trestle tables stood topped with bread rolls, smoked meats, dried fruits, cheeses, and nuts. Men and women, their robes and faces dusty, raised mugs of ale and drank deeply. Steam, smoke, and the scents of the feast filled the air.
Hundreds of warriors filled this grand hall. Across the ruins of Confutatis, two thousand others gathered in burrows, abandoned homes, and old cellars. This city had become a place of bones and old blood, but today light and hope shone here again.
"It is the Night of Seven!" Valien announced, standing at the head table of his hall. He raised a goblet of ale. "Tonight is the holiest night of Requiem's stars. Tonight marks a thousand years since the heroes of Requiem, the seven who survived the Great Slaughter, stood and rekindled the light of Requiem." Valien raised the goblet higher, and hundreds of mugs rose across the hall, returning the salute. "We live in a time of darkness. Requiem lies cloaked in shadows—the shadows of the Cadigus Regime." The resistors hissed across the hall, and Valien spoke louder. "Tonight we say: Like the Living Seven, we will fight. We will keep our light blazing. Tonight let us drink for those old heroes, and let us vow to continue their fight."
Valien drank deeply from his goblet. Across the hall, hundreds of warriors drank from their mugs.
Rune drank too. The ale was bitter and dark, but it flowed well down his throat and warmed his belly. This feast, these candles, and these stories warmed him like the ale. Back in Cadport, soldiers never spoke of the Living Seven, the ancient heroes of Requiem. Soldiers never spoke of the stars. They only hailed the red spiral, worshipped Frey Cadigus, and mostly they hated—they hated the Resistance, they hated the old enemies of Requiem, and they hated the fallen Aeternum Dynasty for its weakness.
"Here there is no hate," Rune said softly into his mug. "Here there is memory and camaraderie and hope."
At his side, Kaelyn placed her mug down, wiped suds off her lips, and touched his hand. She smiled softly, and the candlelight glowed in her eyes. Their fingers twined together under the table.
"I'm glad you're here with us, Rune," she said and squeezed his hand.
Rune thought back to how he had kissed Kaelyn; this memory too warmed him. When he looked at her now, he could almost feel her lips again. Kaelyn's hazel eyes shone, her hair cascaded like waves of molten gold, and her smile warmed him more than hearth fire. His hand, which held hers, felt more alive than his entire body.
I want to fly with her again, he thought, to dance in the night, to hold her body against me, to feel her lips against mine. She drew him like heat draws a freezing man, so powerfully he could barely breathe.
With a bolt of pain, he tore his eyes away. He stared at the tabletop.
Tilla, he thought. Tilla Roper. I walked with her on the beach. I kissed her too. I vowed to see her again. His throat stung. How will I find you now, Tilla? Do you too have food, friends, and a warm fire? Or are you cold and afraid, and do you need me?
He felt a hand in his hair. Kaelyn was looking at him, eyes soft with concern.
"Rune," she said, "you look sad."
He forced a smile and drank some more. "Are you going to force me to dance again?"
She laughed. "Of course I am! Many more times. For the rest of your life. But not now—now we do not dance. Now we sing." She stepped onto her chair, raised her mug, and cried out to the hall. "Vir Requis, let us sing the song of our people. Will you rise and sing the Old Words with me?"
They rose across the hall, hundreds of men and women with gaunt faces but bright eyes, with calloused hands but raised heads. Kaelyn stood before them, and she sang, and their voices rang with hers. Rune realized that he knew these words—his grandfather used to sing them on quiet nights—and Rune joined his voice to theirs.
"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. Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."
They all drank again, and when Kaelyn turned toward Rune, her eyes were solemn, her smile gone.
"The song of Requiem," Rune said to her. "It is forbidden now."
She nodded. "My father forbade it, but it is old beyond reckoning; we have been singing this song for thousands of years. We will sing it again in the palace of Nova Vita, and starlight will fall upon us." She raised her mug again and cried to the crowd. "Blessed be Relesar Aeternum, rightful King of Requiem! Blessed be his name!"
The hall erupted with cries.
"Blessed be Aeternum!" they called. "Stars bless the rightful king!"
Their cries echoed all around. Men and women stood waving their mugs and chanting his name. Rune stood up too, uneasy. Maybe it was the ale, but the room spun around him, a sea of faces and voices and eyes.
"Blessed be Relesar Aeternum, the rightful king!" they cried.
Rune looked around, feeling his face flush and stomach clench. He wanted the ruins to collapse and bury him; never had so many eyes stared at him. He wanted to cry out: But I'm not a king, only a brewer. Not Relesar, only Rune! Yet he remained silent. He had accepted Amerath, the Amber Sword. He had drunk from these men's brew; if not as a king, then as a brewer, he knew the significance of that. And so he only stood silently. Perhaps it was the best thing he could do now.
They ate, drank, and sang long into the night—a night of light and heat and Kaelyn's hand holding his.
LERESY
He stood above the infirmary bed, looking down at the burnt, wretched girl. A sigh flowed through him.
"By the stars, Nairi," he said. "You didn't have to burn the damn girl half to death."
The young lanse leaned against a wall, arms crossed and face twisted into a scowl.
"Don't you bloody mention the stars," she spat at him. "Your father would beat you half to death if he heard you mention them."
Lersey rolled his eyes. "Oh yes—it's red spiral this and red spiral that now. Of course. Only you're forgetting something, my dearest Nairi." He pointed at her. "You are a lowly lanse, a junior officer not worthy to lick my boots, and I am your prince. Granted, a prince you're bedding, but your prince nonetheless. And if I want to mention the bloody old gods…" He raised his voice to a shout. "I will!"
Nairi only glowered at him; he could hear her teeth grind.
With another sigh, Leresy turned back to look at the bed. The soldier lay there, her eyes shut, her bandaged chest rising and falling as she slept. Burn marks stretched out from the bandage like cobwebs; they spread across her shoulders, neck, and arms.
A memory pounded through Leresy, making him wince. How many times had he seen Kaelyn lying wounded like this, all burnt and bloody? So often throughout their childhood, Leresy would stand weeping as Frey, or sometimes Shari, beat and whipped and burned his sister. So many times Leresy would kneel over his wounded twin, trying to comfort her, to heal her.
Just be strong, the boy would whisper to his twin. Be strong and they won't hurt you.
But Kaelyn had always been too weak. Leresy had grown strong and survived; Kaelyn had fled.
And now Tilla too lay wounded. Would she grow strong like he had, or would she shatter and flee like Kaelyn?
"Nairi has done a job on you, Tilla Roper," Leresy said with a sad shake of his head. "I'm quite afraid that when you do wake up, you'll be sore for a good moon or two."
Behind him, he heard leather creak and boots stomp toward him. He turned to see Nairi marching his way, her teeth bared. She drew her punisher and held its crackling tip between them.
"How about I finish the job now," she said. "I'll burn that whore into a scarred, twist
ed freak of melted flesh and sores. But I'll leave her eyes. Yes. I want to leave her eyes so she can see the monster she's become."
"Or," Leresy said, "you can calm yourself before I demote you from lanse to dung shoveler." He pulled her arm down. "For pity's sake, Nairi, put that thing away. You've had your fun. The girl fought well. Your job is to train warriors here, to cull the weak and foster the strong, not disfigure the best in your phalanx."
Nairi snorted a laugh. "So you think her the best in my phalanx? Have you seen them all fight? Or do you simply choose the tall ones with the nice t—"
"Nairi!" he roared. When she fell silent, his voice softened. "Nairi. Are you jealous? Yes, she is tall, and yes, she does have a rather splendid pair of breasts on her. I see them. I like them. I'm the prince of Requiem; I'll stare at as many splendid pairs of breasts as I like. But the only ones I'll touch, Nairi, are these."
He reached for her chest. She glared and slapped his hand away.
"Don't you touch me, Leresy Cadigus," she said. "Your father is far from this land. We are in the south here, and the Black Rose is my phalanx—mine to lead! You are a prince, yes, but you do not serve in the Legions. I do. Within the Black Rose, I am ruler, I am supreme." She hissed. "And if you ever interfere with my command again, and if you ever touch one of my soldiers again, my father will hear of it." She gave him a caustic grin. "You're not the only one with great parentage, Leresy Cadigus."
Leresy opened his mouth to retort, then closed it.
Abyss damn it, he thought. The woman was right. Leresy was perhaps the son of the emperor, but he wasn't heir to the throne—not until he figured out how to kill Shari, at least. But Nairi… Nairi was firstborn daughter of Herin Blackrose, lord of the Axehand Order. If anyone in Requiem approached the emperor in might, it was Lord Herin.
And isn't that why you're here in the first place, Leresy Cadigus? he asked himself. Do not forget your purpose. You're not here to bed young recruits with large dark eyes—at least, not only. You flew down to this wretched, southern cesspool to woo power. And power means Nairi.
He had the grace to lower his head.
"Nairi, you are right. What can I say? I am a young, foolish man, and my blood is hot, and I think with my pants more than my head. What young man is different?" He placed an arm around the small of her back. "But the only woman I love is you, Lanse Nairi Blackrose. Not common girls. Not seaside soldiers. Just you, Nairi—my rose of Requiem."
He tried to pull her into an embrace, but she resisted and snapped her teeth at him.
"Do not try to woo me like I'm some common harlot," she said. "I've heard of your conquests in the capital; they say you bedded half the women in Nova Vita. Don't mistake me for another conquest. I am an officer in the Legions, not one of your courtesans."
Though she struggled against him, Leresy pulled her close, pressing her body against his. He hissed into her ear between clenched teeth.
"Oh, but I will conquer you." He slid a hand between her legs. "And you are but a whore. I know it. You know it. And I know that you love it. You are mine, Nairi Blackrose. I am your prince, and you are mine, and I will do with you as I like." He shoved her toward an infirmary bed, the one beside the cot Tilla lay on. "And I'm going to prove this to you right here."
She stood with her back to the bed, narrowed her eyes, and hissed at him like a cornered animal. He stepped toward her. Her grabbed her clothes, tore at them, and shoved her onto the mattress.
And he conquered her. And he showed her who she was.
"Who am I?" he hissed into her ear as he thrust into her.
"My… prince," she whispered.
"I own you, Nairi Blackrose. Don't you forget it. You do not command me. I am your lord, and I will be your husband."
As he claimed her and she moaned below him, Leresy looked over to the bed beside them where Tilla still slept.
You will be mine too, Tilla Roper, he thought as Nairi screamed and tugged at his hair.
Moments later, as Nairi was collecting her fallen clothes, Leresy approached a bronze mirror that stood behind the beds. He stared at his reflection and passed a hand through his golden hair, fixing an errant strand. He smoothed his doublet and nodded in satisfaction.
"I'm thinking of returning to the capital when the moon is full," he said, speaking to Nairi's reflection in the mirror. "I will announce our betrothal then. We've waited long enough, Nairi. I'm eighteen now. I'm of age. I'll not wait longer. Let us marry here, in my fort, this winter."
She looked up from tugging on her leggings. Her reflection met his eyes.
"You've only just claimed lordship over this fort," she said. "Already you rush to be wed?"
He turned from the mirror to face her. "I thought you would be glad," he said. "Were you not complaining of my wandering eye? Marriage sticks a dagger into that eye. Knowing you, you'd make sure of that." He stepped toward her and held her. "Nairi, I love you. I want to marry you this winter. Not in the spring. Not next year. Not in the capital. But here—in our fort, in our home, in our passion. I will fly to the capital, and I will ask your father for your hand."
She gave him a sidelong glance. "My father. That would be… my father the commander of the Axehand Order."
Leresy stiffened. "That is his position, yes. A useful servant to my family."
"A powerful servant," Nairi said. "Some would say not a servant at all, but… an ally, maybe even a danger. Sometimes I wonder, Leresy, whose backside you crave more—mine to bed or his to kiss."
"Can't I do both?"
It was a mistake, he knew; he regretted those words at once. And yet they tickled him, and he could not stop a grin from spreading across his lips. To his great, great relief, even Nairi's lips twisted into a small smile.
"My poor, lustful prince," she said and mussed his hair. "Lustful for flesh and for power; which will win?" She placed a hand behind his neck, craned her neck upward, and hissed into his ear. "I too play this game, dearest prince. I too crave power. And yes, you are powerful, Prince Leresy. You are powerful in my bed and in the courts of your father. Fly to the capital. Ask for my hand. We will wed this winter, here in Castra Luna, and someday I will be queen."
He raised an eyebrow. "You do know that Shari is heir to the throne."
She kissed his lips, smiled crookedly, and patted his cheek.
"Not for long."
TILLA
She lay abed, wrapped in pain.
When she opened her eyes, firelight seared them. When she breathed, the air sawed at her throat. She tried to wriggle in bed and froze at once; the blankets rubbing against her skin cut her like blades.
What had happened? Tilla could barely remember. Her mind felt foggy. Thoughts floated like clouds, and she could not grasp them. She recalled only training with a sword, and Prince Leresy touching her legs, and…
Nairi.
The memory thudded back into her.
The pain! The pain had pounded through her for so long, so hot, all consuming; it had rattled her teeth, raised welts across her, and twisted her fingers and toes. Tilla had thought her bones would dislocate and her skin shatter.
It's not my fault! Tilla had wanted to cry, but she could only scream, beg, weep, and fall into endless agony and darkness.
"Tilla!" a voice said, muffled and distant and echoing, a voice from another world. "Tilla, can you hear me?"
Tilla blinked. Two shadows stood before her, dark blurs upon orange light. It seemed the shadows were speaking, but the voices sounded so distant Tilla could barely hear.
"Stars, Tilla, can't you hear me?" one shadow said, speaking louder.
"Oh, bloody puke soup, Nairi did a job on her," said the other shadow. "I swear, I'm going to grab that woman's punisher and shove it up her fat arse!"
"Language, Erry!" said the first shadow. "I told you to watch your language. You're not living on the docks anymore."
"As if this place is any damn better! How about you go eat hairy donkey bollocks, Wobble Lips. Get your m
outh dirty for once."
The two shadows began to shove each other. Groaning in pain, Tilla forced herself onto her elbows and blinked vigorously. Slowly the shadows came into focus, becoming two young women. One was pale and doll-like, her golden hair braided—Mae! The other was scrawny, her short brown hair rising in tangles—Erry! Her two friends didn't even notice her sit up; they were busy hitting and scolding each other. Oil lanterns lined the wall behind them, lighting a stone chamber with several empty beds.
"Will you two stop it?" Tilla demanded, voice raspy.
"Now don't you butt in!" Erry said. "This is between me and Wobble Lips, and—" Erry froze and her eyes widened. "Tilla! Sweaty codpieces, you're awake and talking!"
Tilla fell back into bed and groaned. "Barely."
At once, the two girls leaped onto her bed and began to bounce and cheer.
"You're alive!" Mae said and hugged her. "Oh stars, Tilla, I was sure she killed you."
Erry was bouncing up and down. "I knew our flight commander would live! We're going to make you strong enough to kill that rat Nairi someday."
Every bounce of the bed sent pain thudding through Tilla, and she moaned.
"Ow, ow!" she said. "Stop it. Please."
The two soldiers froze.
"Sorry!" Mae said and gasped. "I… did I hurt you?"
Tilla waved weakly. "Never mind that. Just… sit still and speak quietly. Where am I? How long have been sleeping?"
"You're in the fortress infirmary," Erry said and gestured around at several empty beds. "You're the only one here now. Usually when somebody upsets the lanses that bad, they end up buried, not bedridden. You were damn lucky, Roper. You've been here for…" She counted on her fingers. "This is the second night."
"You need to count on your fingers for only two nights?" Mae said. "Stars, Erry, you are a dumb one."
"You're the one who thought the infirmary was the barracks for ground troops!" Erry retorted. "That's infantry. I told you that a million times, barnacle brain, Tilla was wounded, not drafted into the ground forces."
A Legacy of Light (The Dragon War, Book 1) Page 19
