Pillars of Dragonfire

by Daniel Arenson

  Sometimes Jaren wondered if Requiem existed at all. In his darkest moments, he began to worry that Requiem was but a myth, a legend told in Tofet to give workers hope. That they would find nothing here at all, only water and death.

  He closed his eyes, summoning that memory. The night he had buried Elory's ear, the night he had nearly lost hope, lost his life. The night his soul had risen to the celestial halls, seen the fabled Queen Gloriae, the day she had told him to still fly, still fight for Requiem.

  "Was that only a dream?" Jaren whispered. "Only the hallucination of a broken mind?"

  The sun was setting, and as darkness fell across the sea and sky, so did shadows seem to engulf Jaren's soul. He had seen so many die—countless thousands perish in Tofet and the fields of Saraph. He had lost his wife to Ishtafel's lance. Would now the last Vir Requis perish, chasing a mere dream, a land that was but a myth? And even should they reach land again, would they find only more enemies, trapped between a new host and the harpies that still gave chase?

  "Why do you let so many perish?" Jaren whispered, staring up into the indigo sky. "If you're truly up there, spirits of Requiem, why do you let us die? Why do you let so many suffer? Why did you let the yokes and whips break our backs for five hundred years?"

  No voices answered him. No celestial columns shone above. No ancient kings and queens appeared before him in the shadows. Perhaps they did not exist; perhaps they had always been only hallucinations, dreams, hopes. Foolishness.

  The sun dipped below the sea, casting red light like blood, and Jaren's chest tightened, and his head spun to remember so many dying in his arms.

  He raised his eyes, seeking to look away from the water below. The last sunlight faded, and there above he saw them.

  At first they were dim. At first Jaren doubted his eyes, thought that surely his eyes were playing tricks on him. He kept flying, kept staring, and tears filled his eyes.

  Voices rose across the camp, one by one.

  "Bless Requiem!"

  "Requiem, our wings find your sky!"

  Old, grizzled warriors wept. Children prayed. Dragons danced in the sky, calling out in joy, and the tears of Requiem fell like rain. Those Vir Requis who rode in human forms, sleeping or nursing their wounds, rose as dragons too, their voices rising in song.

  Jaren's tears fell.

  "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry to have ever doubted you, Requiem."

  Above him it shone, brilliant in the night, and for the first time in five centuries, the children of Requiem gazed upon its light—the Draco constellation.

  The stars were arranged as a great celestial dragon, rising in the northern sky, skimming the sea. Brightest among them shone the eye of the dragon, Issari's Star, a beacon said to be formed of Issari's soul itself.

  Roused by the song of dragons, Meliora rose upon Jaren's back and shifted. She flew beside Jaren, her eyes damp, staring at the distant lights.

  "Our stars," she whispered. "Our fabled stars. Their light guides us to Requiem. The celestial dragon calls us home."

  Meliora rose higher in the sky, spinning as she soared, wings spread wide, a great silvery dragon the color of starlight. Jaren rose with her, his green scales bright in the night, the color of Requiem's forests that he now knew awaited them. With them rose Vale, dark blue, and Lucem, red as fire, and Elory, deep purple in the night. They flew together, leading the others onward—away from the blinding heat and sunlight of captivity, toward the gentle light of stars.

  "Home," Jaren whispered. "Requiem is real."

  VALE

  The Draco constellation rose throughout the night, ascending toward the sky's zenith, shining bright. As the other dragons sang and prayed, Vale gazed upon those stars, and more than pride or joy, he felt grief.

  In the night, the dragons of Requiem sang and danced in the sky. The sea spread below, the starlit sky above. The dragons raised no fire, letting the light of their constellation shine bright, guiding them home. They sang together in a one voice, the ancient prayers of their people, the prayers that had sustained them through centuries of toil. Yet Vale did not join them, could not feel that holiness.

  "You should have been here with us, Tash," he whispered as he glided on the wind. "You should be seeing these stars with me."

  He lowered his head, looking away from the light, missing her, aching for her.

  She appeared in his memories, so real, as if he could reach out and touch her. Her long brown hair which he loved to stroke. Her mocking brown eyes that could see into his soul. Her coquettish smiles, her small pale hands. Her body pressed against his, clad in her silks, a jewel shining in her navel. And he thought of her kindness—the woman who had risked her life to save Meliora, who had found the Chest of Plenty, and who had fought just as hard to heal Vale's heart, to soothe the pain she had seen within him.

  Yet how can I remain strong with you? Vale thought. You healed the hurt inside me, but now you're gone, and now the pain seems too great to bear. I miss you so much, Tash. I love you so much.

  He imagined her here with him, gliding at his side, a slender golden dragon. She would grin at him, eyes alight, and they would gaze at those stars together, knowing that soon they would be home, that soon their wars would end, that soon they would be wed, grow old together, pray to their stars every night.

  But you'll never grow old, Tash. You'll always stay young in my memories. I promise that I will never forget you, that I will think of you whenever I look at our stars.

  Chinking scales sounded beside him, and Vale turned to see a white dragon flying at his side, her horns and scales shimmering with hints of gold and silver. The dragon smiled at him, her golden eyes sad, their pupils shaped as sunbursts.

  "You don't sing with us." Meliora's eyes were sad, and she glided closer, nuzzling him with her snout. "Can I fly with you, brother?"

  Vale looked at the white dragon, his older sister—the sister he had just met this year. He spoke softly.

  "Throughout my life, toiling in the inferno of Tofet, I would sometimes gaze south toward the distant lights of Shayeen. As the chains chafed my ankles, as the whips tore into my back, as the thousands cried out around me, I would try to imagine the palace rising in Shayeen, the City of Kings. I would try to imagine my sister there—Meliora of the Thirteenth Dynasty, Great of Graces, Princess of Saraph."

  Meliora lowered her head, and now tears streamed down her scaly cheeks. "I'm sorry, Vale. During those years, I would live in the palace, and I would stand on the balcony. And I would gaze north—north to Tofet. From my balcony, I couldn't see much that lay across the river, only a haze. I imagined that the slaves lived like my handmaidens. In comfort. Always with food, with drink, with shelter, with song. When I first entered Tofet and saw the bronze bull, saw your broken bodies, the despair in your eyes . . ." She shuddered. "I never forgot how much grief I felt then. How much guilt. To know that I had grown in comfort over the blood, sweat, and tears of the Vir Requis. I didn't know then that I'm one of you, but I knew that my life had been a lie. I knew that I was no beloved princess, but that I was a tyrant."

  Vale nodded. "You didn't know. You couldn't have known. Father always told us that—told Elory and me. 'Meliora does not know who her father is,' Jaren would say. 'Nor do any others in Shayeen or Tofet. But she's one of us. A Vir Requis. A daughter. A sister. A great light that we pray will return to us someday.' Jaren repeated these words to us again and again in our little hut."

  Gliding at his side between sea and stars, Meliora gazed at him through the veil of tears. "And did you believe him?"

  He smiled grimly. "For many years, I wondered if those stories were true, if indeed you're my sister, or whether Father simply told a story to comfort me and Elory. I often prayed to whatever gods might listen to see you, Meliora, if only a glimpse from the distance. If only another seraph in the sky above Tofet. I thought that if I could gaze into your eyes, I'd know the truth."

  Meliora nuzzled him again. "I'm real. And I fly here wi
th you. And I love you, Vale, my sweet little brother."

  He bristled. "Sweet little brother?" He smiled wryly. "I don't know if anyone would call me sweet."

  The thought popped into his mind, unbidden: Tash would.

  It seemed like Meliora could read his thoughts. She smiled at him sadly, raised her eyes, and gazed at the stars.

  "She looks down upon us, Vale," she whispered. "The woman we love, the woman we miss, the woman we will never forget. Tash is up there, and we'll see her again, and we'll sing of her in the halls of Requiem." She paused. "No, wait. Those are the wrong words. Tash is not just some heroine for our people, a figure for legends." She looked at him. "She was a woman you loved, who you lost, and I have no words of proper comfort, and I cannot ease that pain. All I can say, Vale, is that I'm sorry for your loss, and that I love you dearly, and that I'm always here for you. Some shadows do not pass. Some hurts do not heal. All we can do is kindle new lights—together."

  He gazed at those stars above. It seemed to him that Issari's Star, the eye of the dragon, gazed down upon him, that the silvery light was sad yet loving.

  You too gaze down upon us, Issari, you who returned me to life, you who still blesses us.

  "The stars never forgot us," Vale said softly. "I realize that now. They were with us always, through our long captivity, and the souls that dwell there wept for our pain. Those stars are real, and so are the spirits who dwell there. We will make them proud, Meliora. You and I. We will lead our people on, and we will rebuild our home, and we will raise new temples for those stars, and—"

  "Enough!" She nudged him. "Forget talk of great nations and legends. What matters now is you. And me. Brother and sister. All right, little brother? Don't make me slap you."

  He couldn't help it. He grinned, and his pain seemed to wash away with that grin, and he knew: Things would be all right. There was still joy and family and love in the world.

  "If you slap me, I'm going to annoy you to death. We little brothers are good at that, you know."

  She growled. "We have many years of bickering to catch up on, don't we?"

  Vale laughed—one of the very few times in his life he had laughed, all of them this year. "We do and we will."

  They flew onward, brother and sister, leading a nation of dragons. The sea spread below and the stars guided their way until morning.

  TIL

  Across ruin, desolation, and a wilderness of death they had traveled, sometimes flying, sometimes crawling, passing through fire and ice to finally come to this place. And there, past a veil of haze in the south, they saw it.

  Til's tears fell like the rain.

  "The southern coast," she whispered.

  The rain fell before her in warm curtains, and mist floated across the forested hills and valleys. The sun glowed behind the veil of clouds. There was no snow here in the south, and the air was rich, warm, scented of trees and soil and the distant sea. A healthy smell. The smell of life. A distant city rose by the water, still leagues away, a day's walk. Only a few of its towers rose through the mist, overlooking the sea.

  "We made it." She hugged her brother. "We reached the coast. We'll find safety here."

  Bim stared south with her, the rain streaming down his hair and face, washing away the dirt of their journey. His makeshift patches of armor, strapped across his furs, gleamed wet, and he rested his palm on the pommel of his sword. For the first time in months, perhaps in years, hints of hope showed on his face. It was subtle; anyone else would have missed it. A slight widening of the eyes. A slight upward twist to the lips, soon gone. A slight flush to the cheeks. But Til was his sister, and she could read him like a priest reading the old scrolls.

  Finally I see life in him. Her tears mingled with the raindrops. His soul is not crushed. He's not a roaming dead. He still dreams. He still can feel hope. He still can be a boy.

  She squeezed him between her arms and mussed his hair. "You see that city in the distance? That's Lynport. An ancient, legendary city of heroes, Requiem's southern jewel. What say we go explore?"

  He didn't move from the grassy hill they stood on, just kept staring south through the rain. "There'll be seraphim." His voice was soft, cracking. "There are always seraphim."

  She nodded. "Maybe. Maybe a few. But maybe some other survivors too. Other Vir Requis."

  Bim lowered his head. "Or maybe just more dead."

  Til turned him toward her and stared into his eyes. "Listen to me, Bim. Yes, we might find more seraphim here, and we might find more dead. And maybe we won't find any other survivors, and maybe the city will be swarming with enemies. And if that happens, we'll move on. We'll travel along the coast, moving westward, until we find a place. A cave maybe, not just a temporary hideout, but a real home. A place where we can fish, forage for fruit and berries, and live here in the warm south. Far from the Overlord in the north. Far from danger. We can still find a life here. The rebellion might be over, but our lives are not."

  Bim nodded. "I never wanted the rebellion," he whispered. "All I ever wanted was . . . to do what you said. Find a cave we didn't have to run from the next day. Find a life away from danger. Just a place to . . . to live. Day by day. Breath by breath. Without a war, without a quest, without even a hope. Maybe that sounds sad to you, having no hope. To me it means just living in a quiet place. In peace. You only feel hope when you're afraid. Hope is our cure to pain. I want our pain to end. And not in a cage or grave. Just in a quiet place where it's warm."

  It was the most he had said in weeks, perhaps in years. Til held her little brother close, nearly crushing him against her, and kissed the top of his head.

  "We'll find that quiet place," she said.

  They kept walking through the wilderness as the rain fell. Unlike the north, a land of maples and oaks and birches, here in the south grew many twisting pines. On a grassy hill they found wild apple trees, and they filled their bellies. When several mourning doves took flight above, Til shifted into a dragon, rose for just an instant, and grabbed the birds. She roasted them with her dragonfire, and she and Bim enjoyed the meal in human form. They walked onward.

  As they crossed the last few miles toward the sea, they encountered many remnants of old Requiem, the kingdom that had sprawled here five hundred years ago. An aqueduct snaked across the hills, taller than a dragon but only a few hundred feet long, ending with a pile of bricks. On a hilltop rested the capitals of columns, carved as dragons, but the pillars themselves were missing, perhaps stolen years ago. A massive statue lay fallen in the grass; once it must have stood as large as a palace. It was carved as an ancient, bearded king clad in a flowing robe—King Aeternum, founder of Requiem.

  As they talked here, Til tried to imagine what life had been like before the seraphim. The splendor of Requiem would have covered these hills, but the true glory would be above—thousands of dragons in the sky, for the sky had always been the true domain of Requiem, even more than her forests and mountains and rivers. That sky was as lost as the land below. Even as she walked here, Til saw the distant light of halos—seraphim flying.

  She and Bim crouched at once, hiding in the tall grass.

  "Seraphim are here," he whispered.

  "I count only five." She smiled. "Not too bad. And look, they're already flying away. And I see none over that city."

  They both peeked from the grass, staring south. The distant ruins were closer now. Til had never seen ruins in such good condition before. From here, a few miles away, she could see buildings—real buildings, several stories high, and towers of stone that soared toward the sky. She was used to seeing the cities of seraphim, and she knew their slender, graceful architecture. But here ahead were the ancient structures of Vir Requis, carved of marble and many columns.

  "A city of Requiem still stands," she whispered. "Lynport did not fall to the seraphim."

  Hope kindled inside her. Could it be that . . . that Vir Requis still lived here? Many of them? That they had survived, defended this city through the ages,
protected a small Requiem in the south?

  The sun was setting by the time they reached the city gates, and no more seraphim had risen. Long shadows spread across the land, and crimson stained the sky. In the distance, still a league away, the sea whispered.

  The city rose before the siblings. No, not 'rose,' Til thought. Lynport seemed to loom. The city gates were like the mouth of a stone beast large enough to swallow dragons. The portcullis had long ago rusted away, leaving only shards of metal like teeth. The walls were pockmarked and stained with old fire. Beyond them rose steeples, towers, and many roofs, but while from the distance they had seemed fair and gleaming in the rain, in the sunset Til now saw that they were decrepit, crumbling, full of crows. No doors filled the gatehouse, but Til could see only shadows beyond. Wind moaned, expelled from the city like icy breath, ruffling her hair.

  "The city is alive," Bim said, and once more that dead look returned to his eyes. "The city is afraid." He turned toward her, eyes blank, staring at Til yet through her. "We must leave this place."

  Til couldn't suppress a shudder. The wind moaned again, racing through the city and emerging from the gates, almost forming words.

  Shoo . . . shoo . . .

  "Maybe you're right," Til whispered.

  She turned away from the gatehouse, facing north again, and cringed.

  The sun vanished behind the horizon, but new light flared in the distance. Chariots of fire. A hundred or more, moving in from the north, patrolling the wilderness. Seeking her.

  "On second thought . . . the city isn't looking that bad now." She cringed. "In fact, creepy place full of shadows to hide in? That sounds pretty good."

  She grabbed Bim's hand and began pulling him toward the gateway.

  "Til . . . are you sure?"

  "No." She walked toward the shadowy gateway. "But I know that outside is fire, outside is light, outside is the wrath of the seraphim. We spent many days running, seeking the smallest of burrows—under logs or boulders or bushes. Here is a full city of burrows." She loosened her grip on him, realizing that she must have been hurting his palm. "And we might still find others, Bim. Let's go exploring. We are creatures of starlight and dragonfire. We need not fear the darkness."