by Colt, K. J.
“I . . . I mean we . . .” He cleared his throat. “Yes, we’re from the northerners. I mean—the north. We are. From there.”
Maev rolled her eyes. “Oh in the name of sanity. Does your brain have to turn to mush every time a pretty girl is around?” She shoved him back. “Yes, we’re northerners. Who are you?”
The young woman gazed at the two, eyes wide, as if she wasn’t sure whether they were warriors or jesters.
“You’re not traders, are you?” Her voice dropped. “You . . . you came for him. For Prince Sena.”
Tanin puffed out his chest, seeing a chance to reclaim some dignity. “All’s in a day’s work, really. We’re used to saving people. I—“
His breath left him and his cheeks burned when the young woman leaped forward and embraced him. His heart thumped, and he patted her head, more joy and fear than ever coursing through him.
“Thank you,” the young woman whispered. She pulled away, leaving Tanin feeling incredibly cold and tingly, and embraced Maev next. “Thank you for coming.”
Maev’s eyebrows rose so high Tanin thought they might fall off. The gruff wrestler squirmed, trying to free herself from the embrace. When the young woman stepped back, tears filled her eyes. “I am Princess Issari Seran. The prince is my brother.”
Not long after, the three sat in a winehouse, a little place with a domed ceiling, pale brick walls, and several tables crowded with patrons. Figurines of gods, animals, and even phalli stood in alcoves; Tanin and Maev raised their eyebrows at the latter statuettes until Issari explained that they were fertility symbols. The three companions sat at the back, in shadows, beneath a bronze engraving of a winged bull. Issari had pulled a hood over her head and hid her mouth and nose behind a shawl.
“I am not to be seen,” she whispered, leaning across the table toward Tanin and Maev. “Many here would recognize the face of Issari Seran, Princess of Eteer.” She glanced around, but the remaining patrons were busy imbibing wine, squabbling over games of mancala, and admiring a scantily clad dancer who swayed upon a stage. “In the underbelly of this city, I am merely the Priestess in White, a savior of weredragons.”
Maev thrust out her bottom lip, raised her chin, and clenched her fists. “We are Vir Requis.”
Issari blinked. “What does it mean? I thought ‘weredragons’ was your name.”
With a growl, Maev leaped to her feet, knocking back her chair, and looked ready to brawl. A few patrons glanced over. Tanin pulled his sister back down, shoved a mug of wine toward her, and told her, “You drink. I’ll talk.”
Maev snorted. “Fine with me.” She brought the mug to her lips and began to gulp it down.
Tanin turned back toward Issari. “It means ‘people of Requiem.’ We’re building a tribe of our own in the north. There aren’t many of us now—just me, the warthog here, and my father and grandfather. We’ve come seeking others to join us. We weren’t sure others even existed.”
“Many did live here.” Issari lowered her eyes. “Many died. My father, King Raem, summoned the demons to hunt them. His wife was a were— I mean, a Vir Requis. So is my sister Laira, but she fled our kingdom many years ago. Many others lived here, but he killed most. Some I saved and sent north in ships, though I fear for them too; my father has flown north to hunt Vir Requis in the wilderness as well. I don’t know if others still live in this city—aside from my brother.” She clutched her mug of wine but did not drink. She looked up Tanin with those huge green eyes, and her lips quivered. “Can you save him?”
At that moment, looking into those endless green eyes, Tanin would have promised her to save the sun from the sky, rescue sunken cities from the depths of the sea, and free every last chained man and animal across the world.
Maev had to ruin the moment, slamming down her mug of wine. “My brother can barely free his manhood from his pants fast enough to piss.” She slammed her fist against the tabletop and shouted, “More wine!” She returned her eyes to Issari. “But I’ll free the boy. I’ll fly right into that tower. I’ll burn every last demon around it, and I’ll burn every last guard. Sounds like fun.”
Their conversation halted as a serving girl poured more wine. When they were alone again, Issari shook her head.
“You cannot burn the guards,” the princess said. “They are innocents.”
Maev raised her eyebrows again. She spat right on the floor. “Bloody stars! They’re guarding your jailed brother!” She scrunched her lips and looked at Tanin. “Then again . . . in some cases, that might not be a bad thing.”
Issari shook her head wildly, her braid swaying. “They are following my father’s orders. I know those guards. I grew up with them. They guarded my chambers in my childhood. They guard the tower entrance, and they guard the cell’s door. But they do not guard the window.” She raised her chin, and deep fire filled her eyes. “You can fly. You can reach that window. You can tear open the bars.”
Tanin sighed, his earlier feelings of heroism fading. He spoke wearily. “I saw the tower. A hundred demons fly around it. Demons are smaller than dragons, but they outnumber us greatly. If we fly up there, they’d take us down like wolves taking down a buffalo.”
Issari pulled out her amulet from under her tunic. With no demons nearby, it no longer emitted light. “That is why I will ride you.” She reached across the table and touched Tanin’s hand. “The light of my god will clear your path.”
Her hand was soft and warm, her eyes earnest. Tanin would have agreed to fly into the Abyss itself.
LAIRA
LAIRA STOOD UPON THE ESCARPMENT, staring at the dragon.
For so long—so many years of exile, pain, and tears—she had dreamed of others like her, of people with the dragon disease. Hiding in tents, shivering in the cold among the dogs, crawling through the forest, bruised and bleeding, she had yearned for this, prayed for this, never knew if others even did exist. Now she stood—a frail girl clad in rags, her hair sheared, her body lacerated, her jaw shoved to the side, a wreck of a thing barely alive—no longer alone.
When dreaming of this moment, she had imagined crying in joy, running toward the others, hugging them, laughing with them, feeling safe, feeling whole.
Instead she felt fear.
The dragon regarded her, a large copper beast, larger than her mother had been, larger than she was; the dragon was almost as large as a roc. His scales triggered an ancient memory; they looked like scales of burnished armor from her old forbidden home across the sea. His horns were long, his fangs like swords, his flicking tail bristly with spikes.
And Laira was afraid.
She had thought her father, King Raem, had loved her, but he had tried to kill her and her mother, forcing them into exile. She had thought Goldtusk could be a home to her, but its chieftain had brutalized her. Laira’s eyes burned. Was here another enemy, another one to hurt her?
“Hello there,” the dragon said, his voice a deep rumble, and wisps of smoke seeped between his teeth. “And who might you be?”
Facing him, she shifted into a dragon.
She was a smaller dragon, barely half his size. Her golden scales were softer, supple, more like fish scales than plates of armor. Her horns were only two little buds, and her claws were more like daggers than swords. And yet she filled her mouth with crackling flames, and she stretched her wings wide.
“I am one of you,” she said, and now she could not curb her tears. “I am sick like you. Please help me.”
Suddenly all those old emotions flooded her—shame of her curse, fear of being different, relief and shock and confusion at finding another. The feelings were so powerful that her magic fizzled away, and she found herself on her knees, a human again, trembling, her cheeks wet.
I am not alone.
The copper dragon released his magic too. He stepped closer and knelt before her.
When Laira gazed upon him, she gasped and scampered back.
“Zerra!” She grabbed a stone, pushed herself away from him, and prepared to fight
. “Zerra, you . . . How . . . ?”
He had found her! Somehow the cruel chieftain had—
She narrowed her eyes.
She tilted her head.
“You’re his twin,” she whispered.
The man before her was tall, broad, and shaggy like Zerra, but he was not burnt. No dragonfire scars marred his face and hand. His hair was wild and brown, his beard thick, his arms wide. His eyes, which stared from under bushy brows, were his most distinguishing feature. Whereas Zerra’s eyes were cruel and hard, digging into her like blades, this man had large, compassionate eyes—eyes that had seen much pain, that had watched the skies for years, and Laira knew: He has been seeking me for as long as I’ve been seeking him.
“My name is Jeid.” His voice was soft, lacking the cruelty of his brother. It was the voice of a healer, of a friend. “You’re hurt.”
She smiled shakily at him. “I . . . I . . .”
She wanted to say more, but she was too weak, too hurt; she had suffered too much. Her eyes rolled back and she tilted. He caught her before she could hit the ground.
Barely clinging to consciousness, she felt him lift her. His arms seemed nearly the size of her entire body, and his chest was warm. He carried her down a rocky path, heading into a canyon that cracked the escarpment. Though wide and burly, he was sure-footed, easily hopping from one mossy stone to another. Finally they reached the canyon floor. The walls rose at their sides, green with vines and moss. Trees grew upon the canyon ledges above, barely clinging on. Caves gaped open in the walls, leading to shadows.
“My father knows the art of healing,” Jeid said as he walked. “The old man’s out collecting herbs. I’ll do what I can for your wounds until he gets back.” When they reached a cave’s entrance, he placed her down gently. “You’ll have to crawl in. Can you do that?”
She smiled wanly. “I made my way halfway across the world to here. I can crawl.”
She climbed up a pile of stones—they creaked beneath her—and wriggled into the cave. It was dark and a tight fit. She wondered how Jeid, twice her size, would enter. After crawling down a tunnel, she emerged into a wide chamber and gasped.
This was no mere cave.
It’s a home, she thought, her eyes dampening. It’s the most beautiful home I’ve ever seen.
Murals covered the craggy walls, depicting bison, deer, and dragons flying under the stars. Fur rugs covered the floor, strings of beads curtained passageways into other chambers, and clay pottery stood on a flat boulder. A tin brazier crackled with embers, its smoke rising to waft out a hole in the ceiling.
“It’s not much,” Jeid said, “but it’s—“
“Home,” she whispered.
She wobbled and nearly fell again, her weariness catching up with her. She sat upon a bearskin rug and hugged her knees.
Jeid—himself much like a bear—rummaged around, pulled herbs from pouches, and tossed them into a pot with water. A sweet scent filled the cave, a scent of spring, bringing vigor to Laira.
“It smells nice,” she whispered. “Nicer than I do.”
He muttered something under his breath, looking uncomfortable. He brought her a bowl of the steaming water. “Drink.”
She held the bowl, blew upon it until it was cool, and drank. The tea flowed down her throat, sweet and healing, filling her with warmth. Jeid clattered about and returned with bowls of mushrooms, nuts, and wild berries. Laira’s stomach felt so weak. She could only nibble on a mushroom, feeling too sick for more.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I traveled for so long. For so many years, I didn’t know if others were real. I . . . I lived in a kingdom, and then a tribe, and . . . “ Her eyes stung and her tongue stumbled over the words.
“Hush now,” Jeid said, but his voice was kind. “There will be time for tales. First we must do something about your wounds.”
She looked down at herself. Her ragged cloak—a patchwork of rat furs—barely hid her body, revealing many scratches and bruises. Her wrists and ankles were still a raw mess. Her feet were the worst; the welts from the blazing pyre were infected and turning green.
What must I look like to him? Laira thought, feeling ashamed. A scrawny thing barely larger than a child, clad in filthy rags, her jaw crooked, her hair sheared short, infected and foul—hardly the kind of weredragon he had dreamed of someday meeting, she reckoned. She half-expected him to toss her out into the cold.
And yet he didn’t, and his eyes remained kind, and he brought forth clay bowls of ointments. When he smiled at her, it filled her with as much warmth as the tea, for it was a smile of relief, of goodness.
He likes me here.
“This should help the infection,” he said, dipping the cloth into the bowl. “It might sting a bit, but—“
A loud voice boomed from the cave entrance.
“Jeid Blacksmith! What in the name of sanity do you think you’re doing?”
Laira leaped up and the bowl clattered down. She sucked in her magic, prepared to shift, to blow fire, to attack any enemy who approached. Had Zerra found her? Had her father’s soldiers tracked her down?
When she saw the figure at the entrance, however, she tilted her head, keeping her magic at bay, not yet shifting.
An elderly man stood there, glaring at Jeid. He wore blue robes and a woolen cloak and hood. His beard was long and white, his eyes glittering blue, his eyebrows snowy and bushy. He held a staff formed of an oak’s root; the root split at the top into wooden fingers, clutching a blue crystal.
“I am healing her—“ Jeid began.
“You were about to burn her feet off.” The elderly man scowled. “Root of blackthorn? That’s used to heal frostbite, you fool. The lass is clearly suffering from infected burns. She needs greenroot, for stars’ sake.”
The old man stepped forward and smacked Jeid on the shoulder. The big, burly bear of a man scowled and stepped back with a grunt.
Laira gazed at the pair with wide eyes.
“Ignore my dolt of a son,” said the old man. As he approached Laira, his scowl faded, and the kindliest, warmest smile she had ever seen creased his face and twinkled in his eyes. “Grizzly means well—that’s what we call him, you can imagine why—but he has the brains of a pebble. All muscle and no wit, that one. Call me Eranor, my dear, or Grandpapa if you like. I am a grandfather to any who enter my home.” He pulled a packet from his cloak and unrolled it, revealing green paste. “This will do the job much better.”
Laira sat back down and stretched out her feet. Eranor gazed at her wounds, clucked his tongue, and began ordering his son about. Jeid—Grizzly, that was—though large as a great warrior, rushed about at every command. He fetched a bowl of steaming water, a cloth, and several needles and brushes.
“Now get outside!” Eranor said to his son. “Go on. You know the rules. Somebody always stands on the watchtower and guards. Go!”
Grumbling under his breath, the shaggy man shuffled outside.
Eranor watched his son leave and sighed. “I remember when he was a bundle I could hold in one hand. Now look at the boy.”
“He does look like a bear,” Laira said, remembering the bear she had fought in the forest.
Smiling, Eranor got to work—washing Laira’s feet, applying ointment, and stitching up the open wounds.
“I hope Grizzly didn’t frighten you. My son tends to do that. I’ve seen saber-toothed cats flee at the sight of him. I urge him to cut his hair and beard, wear wool instead of fur, and start to look like a proper person, but he won’t listen. Children rarely listen to their fathers.”
“It’s true,” Laira whispered, thinking of her own father, a cruel king who had banished her. She wished she had a father like Eranor instead. “Thank you, Grandpapa.”
A thought struck her, and she sucked in breath. But he’s Zerra’s father. A chill flooded her as the realization sank in. This kindly old man who was healing her . . . was father not only to Jeid, but also the cruel chieftain, the brute who had abused her for so m
any years. Would Eranor attack her now, tie her up, hand her over to the chieftain?
But the man only smiled up at her, seemingly unaware of her distress. “Good! Call me Grandpapa from now on. I like the sound of that.” He moved to her ankles, applying more ointment to the cuts. “So, my dear, you are Vir Requis too? I saw you flying outside in the forest. I came back here as soon as I could. A beautiful golden dragon! Now there’s a new color.”
At the talk of dragons, her fear eased, and she was able to push Zerra to the back of her mind.
“Vir—what?” she asked. “Are you . . . a weredragon too?”
Eranor paused for an instant, and his eyes seemed to darken. Then he smiled again and resumed his work. “I do not like that word, my sweetness. It’s a crude word, a word those who don’t understand us use. We call this canyon Requiem, a name my son gave it. It was my granddaughter’s name. We call ourselves Vir Requis—people of Requiem.” He smiled. “And yes, I too am proud to count myself among our number.”
He produced soft, cotton strands and began to bandage up her cleaned wounds. Laira lifted her bowl of tea and sipped, letting the warmth flow through her. For the first time in many days, she didn’t hurt.
“But . . . proud? Grandpapa, it’s a disease. Like the one infecting in my feet.”
“Nonsense!” Eranor tossed his beard across his shoulder. “Utter rubbish. Our enemies say such things, and perhaps you believed them. Sweetness . . .” He held her hands, kneeling before her, and gazed into her eyes. “You are not cursed. You are not diseased. You are blessed with a great gift from the stars. You are magic. You are wonderful.”
More than the tea, the coziness of this cave, or the healing ointments, those words changed something in Laira. As Eranor had drawn the pus from her wounds, those words seemed to draw out all the pain, fear, and shame from inside her. She found herself trembling, and tears streamed down her cheeks.
