She loves Roen, he thought. That wild, bearded woodsman.
Cade looked away. So what? What did he care? He was here to work with Fidelity, to spread the word of Requiem, not to fall in love. She was too old for him besides—twenty-one already, a full three years older than him. He was just a boy to her, he knew. Just a foolish boy to help her on her quest.
He thought of Domi next. He had been thinking about her a lot. He had only met Domi briefly, but he had never forgotten those green eyes peering between strands of red hair, how her body had pressed against him, how her lips had touched his ear as she whispered, "Requiem."
It's for Domi that I'll save my feelings, Cade thought. I swear, Domi, we'll meet again.
"Cade! Stop moping around over there and help me." Fidelity waved him over. "Help me print the first page."
He shook his head free of thoughts. For now, he would banish both sisters from his mind. He would think only about his task. He approached, and they worked together, pressing down their metallic letters onto the paper.
"Did it work?" Cade whispered.
Fidelity bit her lip. "Let's check."
She removed the paper . . . and they groaned.
It was a mess. An utter mess. Just a few random letters printed among blobs of ink. With a clatter, a dozen metal letters came loose from the machine, banged against its surface, then thumped into the grass.
Cade sighed. "Are you sure we shouldn't just use quill and inkpot?"
It took them twenty-three more sheets of paper, a lot of cursing, and a few frustrated kicks to finally print their first perfect page. By then, the sun had set again.
"Beautiful," Fidelity whispered, gazing at it. Her eyes watered. "It's perfect." She grinned at Cade—a huge, goofy grin. "The Book of Requiem is coming together!"
Cade wanted to remark how it had taken a full day to prepare a single page, and how they'd have better luck traveling the world and reading the book out loud to people, but when Fidelity leaped onto him, embraced him, and kissed his cheek, suddenly things didn't seem so bad.
Cade held her and kissed her cheek. "Good job, Spectacles."
When she broke apart from him, still grinning, he couldn't help but miss her touch, and he grieved for the space now between them.
So much for not thinking about girls, Cade. He sighed.
They ate some of the food they had brought with them—grainy bread, tangy cheese, smoked sausages, and small bitter apples—then lay down to sleep. Fidelity had wanted to continue working, but soon they were both yawning so much they simply lay down in the grass, and they slept.
In the morning they worked again.
By the end of this second day, they had printed a full hundred pages.
On the third day, their technique improved, and they printed a full two thousand pages. Their first copy of The Book of Requiem was complete.
Fidelity stared at the printed pages—over a thousand of them—tears in her eyes.
"It's beautiful," she whispered.
They worked for a while, binding the book in a leather cover. The final copy was not perfect—it was not beautiful, well bound, or sturdy like the original. The binding was a little crooked, and splotches of ink marred the pages here and there, and the paper was not nearly as robust as the original's parchment pages. It was a little like comparing a clay hut to a marble palace. But it was The Book of Requiem, word for word, a copy of all their lore.
"It's a world of magic, wonder, heroes, and dragons," Fidelity said. "A world of villains, monsters, horrors, but hope too. Of bloodshed but love. Of pain but joy too. It's the world of Requiem, of our people, all existing within a single book." She lifted the heavy tome. "And somewhere, others will read this book. Maybe just one person. But that person will read of dragons, and that person will spread the word—whispering of Requiem to a friend, to family, to a neighbor. We will bring Requiem back to life."
MERCY
She stood in her chamber in the Cured Temple, holding her adopted daughter in her arms.
"Your brother has escaped us, sweet Eliana," Mercy whispered to the child. "Cade has fled like a coward. But we'll find him. And we'll kill him. I won't let him taint this world you were born into."
The babe gurgled in her arms, reaching out to her. Her eyes were huge, hazel, curious. Mercy kissed those tiny fingertips.
"I will protect you, Eliana," she said. "The world is full of darkness. The reptilian disease still roams free, even in the blood of your very brother. The Horde musters on the southern coast, a mob of barbarians who would swarm over the civilization we have built in the Commonwealth, who would tear our society apart. King's Column still stands, even as we pray for the Falling, and the Spirit does not yet descend." She held the babe close. "You are so innocent, and the world is so cruel. I will protect you, but I will also teach you strength, my daughter. You will become a paladin, a warrior of the Spirit."
Mercy walked toward the golden crib and placed Eliana inside. The baby cried, and Mercy stood over the crib, watching her. She did not lift Eliana, did not comfort her, for the baby would have to learn that the world is cruel, would have to learn to be strong.
Sudden pain swelled inside Mercy, cold, filling her belly. She winced. Memories of that day returned to her, that day more horrible than any other.
Mercy grimaced.
She hugged her belly and doubled over. Cold sweat washed over her, and she couldn't breathe. Again she felt his fists drive into her belly. Again she bled. Again she wailed, mourned, a young priestess, hurt, her daughter—
No.
She clenched her fists.
No, she would not summon that memory now. It had happened to another woman—to a married priestess, not a widowed paladin devoted to her god. She had thrust her blade, slaying him, slaying that memory. It had happened to another woman. Not to her. Not to Lady Mercy, a warrior of the Spirit.
She turned away from the crib, walked across her chamber of gold and jewels, and approached the window. The city of Nova Vita spread outside the Cured Temple, rolling for miles, only a few scattered lanterns lighting its streets. The stars shone above. The Draco constellation glowed ahead of Mercy, ever taunting her, ever a reminder of the cruelty in the world.
"I pray to you, Spirit, for the Falling," Mercy said softly, and a cold breeze played with her hair. "I pray for a night when the Draco constellation goes dark. When King's Column cracks and falls. When all the evil of weredragons is gone. When the world is safe for the babe I saved, for the daughter I adopted."
As Mercy thought of Eliana, her memories strayed further back, reaching toward another lost child, and fresh pain clutched her chest.
It had been years ago; Mercy herself had been barely older than a babe herself. She had only vague memories of that night. She remembered her father crying out, snatching his son, fleeing into the night. She remembered her mother screaming, mounting a firedrake, flying out to reclaim her stolen boy.
Mercy placed her hands on the windowsill and lowered her head.
"I had a brother once," she said softly, perhaps speaking to Eliana, perhaps to herself. "Not a useless brother like Gemini, but a precious babe. Father stole him away." Her jaw clenched. "Mother burned him for that. She burned and buried him." Her eyes dampened, and she turned back toward the crib. "But I'll never lose you, my child."
Eliana's crying faded. Perhaps the child was sleeping. Some said that her father had served the Horde; others claimed that he had served the weredragons. Mercy swore that she would ravage cities, would slay millions, all to save this new babe who had come into her life. She had lost two babes already. For Eliana, she would burn the world.
A knock sounded on her door. Mercy narrowed her eyes. Who dared knock at such a late hour?
She rubbed her eyes; they were still damp. When she looked into her mirror, Mercy no longer saw the proud paladin; she wore her cotton night tunic, not her white armor. Her hair, normally flowing across her right shoulder, was bound in a ribbon. She looked like a damn c
ommoner.
"A moment!" she barked.
She spent that moment unbinding and smoothing her hair, clasping a belt around her waist, and hanging her sword there. If she had no time to don her armor, at least she would still appear the warrior.
"Enter!"
The door opened to reveal a young servant. Mercy recognized the little red-headed girl Gemini had hired.
Domi, her name is, Mercy remembered.
The girl knelt and bowed her head. "My lady, the High Priestess requests your presence in the Holy of Holies. She says the matter is urgent."
Mercy stared down at the girl, eyes narrowed. "Look at me, girl."
Domi raised her eyes—large, green eyes full of fear but also a hint of resistance. They reminded Mercy of the eyes of her old firedrake, that beast called Pyre she had ordered put down. The firedrake too would stare with such green eyes that hinted at recalcitrance.
Mercy frowned. "I thought my brother hired you to serve him alone."
Domi lowered her eyes. "He has, though Her Holiness the High Priestess has begun to give me work as well. She says I must prove myself more useful than just wiping Gemini's arse. Pardon, my lady, but those were her words."
Mercy tilted her head. She wondered. Beatrix rarely bothered giving commands to lowly servants. There was something about this Domi—about how her brother had shown up with her one day, about how Beatrix seemed to be keeping an eye on her, even about the hint of amusement she saw in Domi's eyes as she repeated Beatrix's words. Mercy stared into those green eyes, judging, scrutinizing.
Who are you, Domi? You're no simple servant.
"Remain here and watch over my daughter," Mercy said. "When I return, you and I will speak more. I look forward to learning all about you, Domi. I like to learn where all our servants come from."
Domi bowed her head. "Yes, my lady."
With that, Mercy brushed past the servant and entered the corridor. She walked through the lavish halls and stairways. Lanterns hung on the walls, glowing softly, and only a few servants scuttled about, pausing to kneel as Mercy walked by.
Finally Mercy entered the Holy of Holies—the vast, white chamber, forbidden to all but her family, where rose King's Column.
Her mother, High Priestess Beatrix, knelt here in prayer. Mercy came to kneel beside her, facing the column.
"I pray for the Falling," Beatrix whispered.
Mercy nodded. "I pray for the Falling."
The High Priestess turned her head toward her daughter. Her shrewd eyes, pale blue and piercing, shone with a strange light. "Mercy, you have failed me again."
Iciness spread through Mercy, and her jaw tightened. "I told you, Mother. I will find the missing weredragons. I will crush them, I will—"
"Do you know what Requiem is, child?" the High Priestess asked.
Mercy sucked in breath. Her eyes widened. "That is a forbidden word, Mother!"
Beatrix huffed. "Forbidden to the masses, yes. We do not want the commoners to speak of such rubbish, to remember the weakness of our fallen kingdom, a kingdom infested with disease. But you and I, here, in the Holy of Holies . . . we have no secrets from each other, nor from the Spirit who watches this place, waiting for the column to fall." Beatrix rose to her feet. "Yet now commoners too speak of Requiem. Books have appeared across the Commonwealth, the word 'Requiem' emblazoned on their covers."
Mercy rose to her feet too. She gripped the hilt of her sword. "What books?"
Beatrix stared at her, eyes like blue pools of demon fire. "Books challenging the Commonwealth. Books depicting Requiem as a noble kingdom, weredragons as blessed beings, not monsters. The book urges commoners to hide their babes, to leave them with the disease of weredragons. These books call for open rebellion."
"Weredragons printed them!" Mercy drew her sword, and her chest heaved. "I will hunt down these books. I will burn them all! I will burn those who printed them. I will burn all those who read them. I will burn down the world if I must!"
"Sheathe your sword in the Holy of Holies!" Beatrix demanded, eyes flashing. "You've become a wild, errant beast, no more mindful than a firedrake. A brute can swing a sword. It was your incompetence, Mercy, that allowed the weredragons to escape. It is those very weredragons who likely printed these books, spreading their filth across the Commonwealth."
"I slew weredragons!" Mercy retorted. "Two above the islands."
"Two whose bodies you never found," said Beatrix. "Reports speak of weredragons among the Horde now, perhaps the same ones you let escape. Sometimes I think your brother more competent than you."
"My brother?" Mercy scoffed. "Gemini has been spending all his time with that little whore he dragged into the palace."
"And you spend all your time with that babe of yours." Beatrix shook her head in disgust. "Your brother is pureborn; he can never marry. I found you one husband, Mercy, and you stuck a sword in his gut. I tried to find you a new husband, to see you bear me an heir, and instead you drag a common babe into my temple. I should have the little wretch tossed into the fire."
Mercy hissed. These were forbidden words! These were memories that should never rise again!
"Then you might as well burn me too," Mercy said. "I would protect that child with my life. Husband? I have no time for such foolishness. I am busy hunting weredragons."
"And failing at it." Beatrix turned her back toward her. "Find these books, Mercy. Find them and burn them, and find the weredragons who printed them. If you cannot, your babe will be the one to burn. Now leave this place."
Mercy stormed out of the chamber, chest shaking, eyes stinging. She shouted as she moved through the hall, calling for soldiers, for paladins, for steel and fire.
In the darkness, twenty firedrakes rose from the underground and soared into the night sky. It was time to go hunting.
CADE
The two robed, hooded figures walked down the cobbled street of Lynport, heading toward the piers.
This city was old, among the oldest in Requiem. As Cade walked, stooped over, he felt the ancient ghosts all around him, whispers and memories in every stone. Many of the buildings were under a hundred years old, built of clay, humble and domed—constructions of the Cured Temple. But unlike in the capital, some of Requiem's original buildings still stood here in the outskirts of the empire. Their foundations were built of wood, white clay filling the spaces between the timbers, and true glass filled their windows. Down the cobbled road, still distant, Cade could see the southern ocean and the masts of ships at the docks.
As they walked, Fidelity turned her head toward Cade. He could just make out her face within the shadows of her hood. Her eyes were bright, and a smile spread across her face.
"We're actually in Lynport! The legendary city! It's—" She swallowed her words as an old woman hobbled by, leaning on a cane, then spoke again. "It's named after Queen Lyana Aeternum, a legendary heroine of Requiem who fought the phoenixes and rebuilt Requiem from ruin. Her story's in the book. I'm surprised the Cured Temple never renamed the city, though once it was renamed. It used to be called Cadport, named after General Cad—"
"No history lessons!" Cade whispered. "Hush now. No talk of Req—I mean, of you-know-what until we leave this city." He glanced toward the elderly woman who was hobbling away in the distance. "There are ears everywhere. And we know that Mercy's after these books."
He pointed at a poster glued to a wall. They had seen such posters in every town they had visited so far. With large red letters, the parchment proclaimed:
Heretical books have infiltrated the Commonwealth! Turn your eyes aside from the Demon King who infests the pages of lurid tomes! Storing heretical texts is punishable by stoning. Turn in forbidden books to your local paladin to earn a silver coin.
Fidelity nodded, examining the poster. "If nothing else, we're costing the Temple some money."
Cade grumbled. "They have more silver coins than we'll ever have books. So keep quiet and let's keep going. We've got to hide these books better. I don't wan
t a repeat of last time."
He shuddered to remember how at their last town—Balefair in the north—the paladins had found the heavy Book of Requiem before Cade and Fidelity had even left the city. The paladins had burned that book in the town square, shouting that they'd find and burn whoever had printed it too. Cade winced to remember that night he'd spent with Fidelity huddled in an alleyway, finally sneaking out the southern gates before dawn.
They kept walking through Lynport. The huts rose around them, pale in the afternoon light. A priest walked by, swinging a bowl of incense, chanting to the Spirit. A couple of stray cats chased each other down an alleyway. The steeples of a monastery rose ahead, pale and thin like finger bones. Cade tried to imagine this city back in the days of Requiem—the Requiem of the awe and magic that had filled Domi's voice, the Requiem of the stories from the book. Dragons would be flying above, thousands of them in every color, their scales gleaming in the dawn. Temples to the Draco constellation would rise here, their columns carved of marble.
When he looked at Fidelity, he saw that she was smiling wistfully, a huge, trembling smile, and he knew that she was imagining the same thing. Their eyes met, and their hands clasped together. They did not need to speak. As they walked here, staring at these old cobblestones and bricks—stones carved in the days of Requiem—Cade and Fidelity shared something more powerful than words. They shared the bond of their magic, the memory of Requiem, the dream of seeing Requiem reborn, and it seemed to Cade that his thoughts in the forest—his love or lust for Fidelity as a woman—seemed insignificant beside this bond, as trivial as a torch by a great pyre.
Requiem, he thought. Requiem of Domi holding him, whispering into his ear. Requiem of the stars of the dragons flying above. Requiem of his sister, free from pain, back in his arms. Requiem—the anchor of his soul, the beacon of his heart.
They reached the boardwalk. The Tiran Sea spread ahead, calm and pale blue and gray. Several merchant ships docked between the breakwaters, wide carracks with many sails. Beyond the port, warships patrolled the sea, their hulls lined with cannons. Many other cannons lined the boardwalk, and soldiers moved among them, clad in chainmail and white robes embroidered with tillvine blossoms. No other city in the Commonwealth lay so close to the Horde; the continent of Terra, home to that ragtag army from many nations, lay beyond this southern sea.
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