"I don't know, my lord," she whispered.
He rose to his feet so suddenly, she started. He released her arm, shoved her back, and backhanded her face. Pain exploded. For an instant, Mirum saw only white light. She took a ragged breath, wobbling, spots dancing before her eyes. She could barely see, barely breathe. Draw your sword, a voice inside her whispered. Draw Father's blade and finish him now, or he'll rape and kill you, or kill and then rape you. Kill him now and then fall upon your sword.
Yet she could not... and she didn't know if it was because she was brave, or because she was a coward.
"You're lying," Dies Irae said, voice as hard as his hand.
Mirum's eyes were glazed, and she gazed past him, gazed out the window toward the sea. She could see the waves there, hear their murmur, taste their salt on her lips. So many of her tears, so many of her whispers and mumbles those waves had swallowed. So many of her fears she had spoken into their roaring depths. The promise of hidden realms and seascapes of wonder pulsed beneath them, a world unknown to her, unknown to any human. Standing in this room, blood on her lip, cruelty surrounding her, Mirum wished like never before to dive into those waves, to disappear into their kingdoms of seashells, sunken ruins, twinkling beads of light so far from pain. From the sea we come, to the sea we return, were the words of her forefathers, words always murmured at births and deaths. Who will utter those words for me? Will I be buried too in the kingdom of waterdepth, or burned upon my walls?
Dies Irae returned to his seat. He leaned back, placed his hand behind his head, and laid his boots upon the table. "There are rumors," he said, voice soft, but Mirum could hear him so loudly, she wanted to cover her ears. "There are rumors in the village. The fishermen whisper of... a shape at night, a shape in the skies. A shape that blocks the stars."
"Could it be a cloud, my lord?" Mirum dared to ask, and Dies Irae laughed mirthlessly.
"You are an endearing creature, are you not?" He placed his boots on the floor and gestured at Gloriae. "Bring her to me."
The young woman was slim, no taller than Mirum and unlikely to be stronger, but still she stepped forward, green eyes flashing with amusement. A slight, crooked smile on her lips, Gloriae shoved Mirum.
Dies Irae caught her and pulled her down, so that Mirum sat in his lap. She tried to rise, to struggle, but Dies Irae held her firmly, his iron arm across her. She turned her face away from his, disgusted, but he clutched her cheek with his good hand and turned her face toward him. Gloriae laughed icily.
"So innocent," Dies Irae whispered to Mirum. His good hand was gloved in moleskin, and he used it to wipe the blood off her lip. "You are still a child, are you not? Like the last time I saw you. A cloud, you say. It is sweet, my child, sweet like your soft cheeks, like your bloodied lips, sweet like all of you." His eyes undressed her. "But no, child. This was no cloud. This was the shape of a dragon, swooping low over the sea at nights, sometimes roaring, scaring fishermen's children, waking them, filling their nightmares. Can you imagine the atrocity, child? A dragon flying at night... here in my lands? Over the sea of Fort Sanctus, which I let you rule?"
Mirum shut her eyes. Looking at his golden, hard face was too painful. "I have seen no dragons here."
Dies Irae squeezed her thigh, and Mirum struggled, but could not free herself. "Nobody has seen dragons, not true dragons, not in a thousand years. The true dragons left these lands long ago. No, child. This was a Vir Requis."
At the sound of that ancient name, the tittering Gloriae fell silent. Mirum froze, her breath dying within her. Vir Requis. Nobody spoke those words anymore. They were forbidden words, taboo, words Dies Irae allowed nobody to speak.
Vir Requis. The ancient blood. The men who carried the old magic, the magic that let them take dragon form. They were not true dragons, but nor were they true men. Vir Requis. A proud, ancient race. They were remembered now as weredragons, as if they were monsters, no nobler or prouder than beasts.
"But... but I thought they're all dead," Mirum whispered and opened her eyes.
Dies Irae was looking at her, and Mirum realized that his eyes were the same color as her sea, gray blue, as cold and dangerous as those waves that crashed against her fort.
"I thought so too, child," he whispered, so softly that she read his lips more than she heard his voice. "But they say that one may have survived. One... maybe two. Maybe three. No more. No more out of a million. But a handful might remain, pretending to be decent humans. Like cowards they hide—in basements, in caves. Maybe even, child, in a ruined seaside tower."
There could be no doubt now. He knew of Kyrie. Someone had betrayed them. One of the villagers. One of her friends. Someone had seen Kyrie, had seen him turn into a dragon, and had talked.
A tear rolled down Mirum's cheek.
"Now now, dear child," Dies Irae said and lifted the tear on his finger. "Why do you cry? Is it for your shame, your shame for having betrayed me?"
Mirum tightened her lips. No! Do not give up now. Not yet. Live a little longer, for Father, for Kyrie. She swallowed hard, swallowed down all her terror, all her memories. "There is no weredragon here, my lord. You may search this tower if you will. You will find none."
He rose suddenly, shoving her off. She hit the table, then hit the floor, but this time Gloriae did not laugh. There would be no laughter so soon after the forbidden words had been uttered. Who of them will rape me today? Mirum thought. And will Irae kill me after, or before they've had their way?
"Show us to the tower top," Dies Irae said, all the softness gone from his voice. That voice was now cold, commanding, and sharp as Gloriae's blade. "Let us search this ruin."
Dies Irae left the hall, holding Mirum before him, and they stepped onto the staircase. His lieutenants walked behind: the cold and dainty Gloriae, all in steel and gold, and the gaunt, silent man whose face still hid behind his helm. The staircase wound up the tower, its steps chipped, centuries old. Mirum walked numbly, Irae's fingers digging into her arm. They walked round and round, up and up, and Mirum kept looking out the arrow slits, peering at the roaring sea, wishing again that she could dive under that water, swim away, drown into the world of hidden wonders.
Please, Kyrie, she thought feverishly, lips trembling. Please hide.
And if they found him... she still had her sword at her side. She could not hope to kill them all, probably not even kill Dies Irae. Even if she did kill him, that meant torture for her. They would break her spine with hammers, break her limbs and string them through the spokes of a wagon wheel, and hang her outside to slowly die. They would do the same to Kyrie, not caring that he was still a boy, only sixteen. But maybe... maybe if she could draw her sword fast enough, she could still fall upon it.
They reached the tower top. A rotting wooden trapdoor lay above her, leading outside to the crenellations.
"Open it," Dies Irae said.
With numb hands, Mirum pushed open the trapdoor, then stepped outside onto the windy, crumbling crest of Fort Sanctus.
The waves roared below, spraying foam. The wind lashed her, streamed her hair, and flapped her cloak and dress. Old iron bars surrounded the tower top, the vestiges of some ancient armaments, now rusty. The stone they rose from was moldy and chipped. This tower has been in my family for centuries. Will it fall today?
Below the tower, Mirum could see the three griffins, those beautiful beasts. She could not see Sol. Had the griffins eaten her, or had her mare escaped? Either fate seemed kinder than what Mirum would endure if they found Kyrie here today.
Mirum could see for leagues from here. On one side, she saw the endless sea, gray water flowing into the horizon. On her other side, she saw leagues of boulders, rocky fields, and scraggly deltas. Once all these lands had belonged to her father, and to his father before him, and many forts had risen from them. Dies Irae had taken these lands, toppled these forts, killed her father and his father. All he'd left was this place, this old tower, this old village. When Mirum looked down, she could see the fish
ing village, this hamlet where somebody had betrayed her, where somebody had seen Kyrie and spoken.
I told you, Kyrie, she thought and tasted tears on her lips. I told you not to fly. I told you never to use your magic, never to become a dragon. But he would never listen. A Vir Requis was meant to fly. If they stayed human too long, they grew thin, pale, withered. They needed to breathe fire, to flap wings and taste the firmaments between their jaws.
"There's nobody here," Gloriae said, her sword drawn. The wind streamed her golden hair and turned her cheeks pink.
Dies Irae raised his steel fist, the spiked mace head. "Wait, my daughter. We will look."
A few old chests and barrels littered the tower top. Dies Irae eyed them.
"Old fishing gear," Mirum said, and was surprised to hear no hoarseness to her voice, almost no trace of fear. Her voice sounded dead. Flat.
Dies Irae did not spare her a glance. "We shall see. Molok, the laceleaf, please."
The gaunt man stepped forward, rail-thin, tall and gangly. Finally he lifted his helmet's visor, and Mirum saw his face. The face was cadaverous. His cheekbones jutted and his dark eyes were sunken. Mirum knew this one. Lord Molok—known in whispers as the baby killer, for he had once slaughtered five Vir Requis infants in a village, and probably many more that men did not speak of. As Mirum watched, trembling, Molok opened a leather pouch. He pulled out crumpled leaves and handed them to Dies Irae.
Mirum's knees trembled. Laceleaf. The pale, serrated leaves leaked white latex like milk. Laceleaf was what Dies Irae would call it, of course; a mild name, the name of a herb one might find in an old woman's garden. To the Vir Requis it had other names.
"Do you know what this is?" Dies Irae asked. He held the leaves up to Mirum's nose. He crushed one between two fingers, and she smelled it, a smell like vinegar and overripe apples.
"A herb," she whispered.
Dies Irae laughed softly. "To you or me, yes. A harmless herb. My maids often cook my meals with it. But to the weredragons... do you know what they call it, sweetness?" His nostrils flared, inhaling the plant's aroma, and he let out a satisfied sigh. "They call it ilbane, or deathweed, or devil's leaves. In their ancient tongue, which the weredragons spoke in the old days, it was simply called valber, which is their word for poison."
"It kills weredragons," Mirum said, hating the taste of that word on her lips. Weredragons. A foul word. The name of monsters.
Dies Irae shook his head. "Kills them? Oh no, my dear. It takes more than a herb to kill beasts of such evil. It sickens them. Burns them. When they are in human form, it reveals the monstrosity that lies within them, their reptilian blood. But no, sweetness, it does not kill them." He raised his iron fist. The sun finally peeked from the clouds, and the mace head glittered. Dies Irae's thin lips smiled. "This kills them."
So swiftly Mirum gasped, Dies Irae swung his iron arm. The mace head hit a rotted chest, showering splinters of wood. Mirum bit her lip, instinctively reaching for her sword, but Lord Molok grabbed her arm with a gauntleted hand, and she could not draw her blade.
Mirum took a ragged breath. Nothing but some old arrowheads, flasks of oil, and rope fell from the shattered chest.
Mirum saw two more chests, both of rotting and cracked wood, and five barrels. Which one hid Kyrie? Fly, Kyrie, she thought feverishly, trying to transfer her thoughts to him as by magic. The time to fly has come. Escape!
Dies Irae smirked and approached a barrel. Now that the clouds had parted, he truly looked like a seraph, his armor so bright it hurt Mirum's eyes, the jeweled griffin on his breastplate shining like stars. The garnets on his mace appeared like drops of blood.
That iron arm swung again and slammed into a barrel.
Splinters scattered.
Turnips rolled onto the floor.
Fly, Kyrie! Mirum wanted to scream, but she could bring no breath to her lungs. She felt paralyzed, could barely breathe, and would have fallen had Molok not been holding her.
Dies Irae swung his mace into another chest.
Wood shattered.
Splinters flew.
A cry of pain sounded, and there—in the splintered wreck of the chest—huddled a boy.
Kyrie.
"Ah, here we go," Dies Irae said pleasantly, as if he had just found a missing sock.
Mirum stared, mouth open, Molok clutching her. Huddled on the floor, glaring up with burning eyes, Kyrie seemed so young to her. He was sixteen now, but suddenly to Mirum's eyes, he seemed six again, a mere child, like when she'd found him bloodied among corpses at Lanburg Fields. His hair was fair, dusty, wild. His eyes were brown, more pain and anger in them than fear. As always, his parchment map was rolled up and stuffed into his belt. Kyrie always kept the map on him; his bit of hope, bit of memory, bit of anger.
Ice filled Mirum's stomach. Kyrie did not know Dies Irae like she did. If he had seen Dies Irae slaughter her father, rape her all night by the corpse, he would have less anger in his eyes... and more terror.
Cradling his arm—Dies Irae's mace must have bashed it—Kyrie rose to his feet. He was taller than Mirum already, but when he faced Dies Irae, the golden lord towered over him.
"All right, all right, you win," Kyrie said, eyes flashing. "You found me. Now bugger off before I bash your beak nose."
As Mirum gasped, Dies Irae laughed. It was not a cruel laugh, Mirum thought, nor angry; Dies Irae seemed truly amused. "Bold words," he said, "for a worm caught cowering in a barrel like a rat."
Kyrie glared, fists clenched at his sides. "Am I a rat or a worm? You're good at bashing things, but your tongue is as blunt as that freakish iron hand of yours."
"No, Kyrie," Mirum whispered through a clenched jaw. Fly! Turn into a dragon and fly! Why do you linger here?
But of course, she knew. If Kyrie flew, he'd prove to Dies Irae that he was Vir Requis. The griffins would chase him, but they would not just kill him; they would torture him, then burn him alive upon the towers of Flammis, Dies Irae's marble palace. He thinks he can withstand the ilbane, Mirum realized, feeling faint. Her knees buckled, and she stayed standing only because Molok clutched her arms. No, Kyrie, you cannot; no Vir Requis can, not even the great Benedictus.
"What's your name?" Dies Irae asked the boy, still seeming more amused than slighted.
"Kyrie Eleison," he replied, chin raised, fists still clenched.
"Kyrie, I like you," Dies Irae said. "Most weredragons are terrified of me. They tremble in my presence like the sweet Lady Mirum here. But you, Kyrie... you feel no fear, only anger. That is rare for weredragons, who are known for their cowardice."
"Yes, yes," Kyrie said, and Mirum knew that he was scared now, terrified, but letting his anger drown that fear. "I have weredragon features, and Eleison is a weredragon name. I hear that all the time. Why do you think I hide here? People always mistake me for a weredragon. My father was one. But then... so was yours, wasn't he, Irae?"
Mirum gasped. Nobody mentioned Dies Irae's father to him. Nobody who wished to live. Everyone knew that this was Dies Irae's greatest shame.
Dies Irae's thin mouth curved bitterly, and lines ran down his face. His fist clenched the ilbane, and sap dripped. "Yes," he said, "my father was a weredragon. The filthiest, most cowardly among them."
"He was their king," Kyrie spat out, eyes aflame. "But you were a disgrace to him, weren't you? His firstborn son... but without the ancient magic, unable to become a dragon. You were a freak in his court, weren't you? So he disowned you. He had another son, Benedictus, to replace you—"
"Enough!" Dies Irae shouted, so loudly that Mirum, Irae's lieutenants, and even Kyrie started. Dies Irae shook with fury, fist clenched, face red. His eyes burned. "My lineage is none of your concern, weredragon. That old, royal house of Requiem is gone now. My father is dead. My brother is dead—"
"Benedictus is not dead," Kyrie interrupted, and Mirum wept, because she knew that their torture and deaths were now certain. "You never killed Benedictus. You stole his amulet, and you stole h
is griffins, but you never killed him. Your brother bit off your arm. He could have killed you, but he showed you mercy, and he flew away. I know! I was there. I saw it happen—"
Kyrie froze and bit his lip.
Oh, Kyrie..., Mirum thought, tears in her eyes.
Dies Irae stared silently for a moment, a moment that seemed to Mirum to last a lifetime. Finally he broke the silence. "You were... there. Certainly you were too young a decade ago to fight under my banners." Dies Irae raised his fist, bringing the ilbane near Kyrie... and then pressed the leaves to Kyrie's cheek.
Kyrie tried not to scream. His teeth gritted, and sweat washed him, and his eyes moistened. Mirum saw welts rise on his cheek, and his fist clutched his map, that parchment forever at his belt, as if it could save him, give him strength. Mirum struggled to free herself from Molok, but could not. Finally voice found her throat.
"Fly, Kyrie!" she shouted at the top of her lungs.
Kyrie too shouted, a cry of pain. He leaped away from Dies Irae, cheek blistering, and suddenly fangs grew from his mouth. Claws sprouted from his fingertips. Dies Irae swung his mace, but Kyrie leaped back, and the mace missed him.
Kyrie leaped off the tower.
In the chaos, Molok's grip loosened. Mirum twisted, freed herself, and drew her blade.
She thrust her sword at Dies Irae. You killed my father! she wanted to scream. You raped me! You murdered millions! But everything happened so fast, she had time for only a wordless cry of all her rage and tears. Her blade gleamed.
Dies Irae swung his mace, met her blade, and shattered it.
Mirum fell to her knees, clutching her bladeless hilt, and saw a dragon rise over the tower's crenellations, forty feet long and roaring. Blue scales covered Kyrie. Flames rose from his nostrils, and his wings churned the air, blowing the hair back from Mirum's face. Mirum heard the thud of griffin wings, their eagle shrieks.
"Fly, Kyrie!" Mirum shouted. He was reaching toward her. "Leave me! Follow your map, Kyrie, and fly!"
Song of Dragons: The Complete Trilogy Page 3