Kyrie raised an eyebrow. "A nightshade? I've never heard of them."
"I don't know much about them," Agnus Dei said. She too looked to the sky, as if scanning for its return. "But my mother used to tell me stories of them. She said they were made of unlight."
"Unlight?"
Agnus Dei nodded. "The opposite of light. Did you see how our firelight disappeared into it, as if the creature and light cancelled each other out? That's unlight."
"Scary stuff." Kyrie hugged himself. He remembered the firelight flowing into the nightshade, like wisps of cloud. Had his soul looked the same when the creature pulled it? "Do you reckon Lacrimosa knows more about them?"
"Maybe. Mother knows a lot. You and I never read much growing up, but Mother was raised in Requiem before it was destroyed. She spent her childhood in libraries. Let's find her. I hope Mother and Father didn't meet that nightshade too."
They walked through the forest, heading south toward their camp. The Draco constellation shone above between the boughs, the stars of Requiem, guiding them. Crickets chirped, and Kyrie held Agnus Dei's hand. Her hand was slender and warm. It was hard to believe that, only a week ago, they'd been fighting Dies Irae. It seemed a lifetime ago that they'd stolen the tyrant's amulet, freed his griffins, and found sanctuary in this forest. A chapter in Kyrie's life had ended when he'd sent Dies Irae fleeing, wounded, back to Confutatis. A new chapter had begun now, it seemed, and Kyrie didn't like how it started. Not one bit.
They were still far from camp when they heard boots trudging toward them. At first, Kyrie wanted to flee. He was used to footfalls heralding pursuit—Dies Irae's soldiers with swords and crossbows. But then he heard Lacrimosa's voice calling, "Agnus Dei! Daughter, do you hear me?"
Agnus Dei cried, "Mother! I'm here."
Soon Lacrimosa emerged from between the trees, carrying a tin lantern. Kyrie couldn't help himself. Whenever he saw Agnus Dei's mother, the queen of fallen Requiem, he paused and stared. Lacrimosa, pale and dainty, seemed woven of moonlight. Her hair was a gold so fair, it was almost white. Her eyes were pools of lavender, and she wore a pendant shaped as a bluebell.
"Agnus Dei, are you all right?" Lacrimosa said. "We heard fire and howls, and I heard you scream."
Agnus Dei hugged her mother. The two looked nothing alike, Kyrie reflected. Agnus Dei had tanned skin, curly black hair, and blazing brown eyes. Lacrimosa was starlight; Agnus Dei was fire.
"We saw a nightshade," Kyrie said to the two women. "Well, we did more than see it. The bloody thing nearly killed us before we blinded it. Do you know much about nightshades, Lacrimosa?"
Lacrimosa grew even paler than usual.
"Nightshades," she whispered.
A voice spoke ahead between the trees, deep and gruff. "Impossible."
With snapping twigs and ragged breathing, Benedictus—King of Requiem and father to Agnus Dei—emerged from the trees. He held a torch and walked up to them. His chest rose and fell. Sweat soaked his leathery face and matted his graying black hair. He glared at Kyrie, fists clenched.
"I'm telling you, we saw a nightshade," Kyrie said to his king. At least, Benedictus had once been his king, back when Requiem still stood and a million Vir Requis still flew. "Tell him, Agnus Dei."
Agnus Dei spent a moment describing their ordeal to her parents. When she was done, even Benedictus looked pale. The king closed his eyes and seemed lost in old, painful memories. For a long time, the others stood in silence, waiting for Benedictus to speak.
Finally Benedictus opened his eyes and said, "We leave this forest. It's no longer safe."
He began trudging through the woods. The others hurried to keep up.
"Why?" Kyrie demanded. "What do you know of these creatures? Speak, Benedictus!"
The older man, a good four decades Kyrie's senior, scowled. "You don't want to know, kid."
They continued walking through the night. Their boots rustled fallen leaves and damp twigs, and the wind moaned. Kyrie tightened his cloak around him, but found no warmth. He tried to speak a few times, but Benedictus scowled and silenced him, saying these woods were full of ears. And so Kyrie walked silently, thoughts rattling in his skull. He remembered floating over his body. The nightshade had tugged his soul, and was taking it... where? To a place colder and darker than this night, than any night. Kyrie shivered. He didn't know how long they walked through the forest. It seemed like hours, but time felt lost to Kyrie. Finally he could bear it no longer.
He grabbed Benedictus's shoulder. "That thing did something to me, Benedictus. I don't know what, but it scared me."
Benedictus grumbled. "The night is no time to speak of these things."
"I don't care. It seemed to... pull me, Benedictus. Not my body, but whatever's inside my body. My soul, if you'd believe it. And I saw things. Well, I didn't see them, but I felt them. Dimensions, and space, and other worlds. My soul seemed to balloon to fill them, like smoke in a jar, and...." His stomach knotted. He took a deep breath. "I think I've earned the right to learn more. Tell us what you know."
Benedictus growled, still stomping through the dark woods. "You want to know about nightshades, kid?" He pointed his torch to his left. "Look."
Kyrie looked, and saw that they had chanced upon a road that ran downhill, cut through a farm, and ended at a village. The village burned. Kyrie saw bodies between the buildings. A dozen nightshades swarmed above them, coiling, their eyes glittering. The creatures laughed, their voices like thunder.
"Stars," Agnus Dei whispered. She placed a hand on Kyrie's shoulder. "Are those people all dead?"
Benedictus shook his head, staring at the village below. "Not dead. Something worse. Their souls are with the nightshades now, lost in the worlds beyond this world, in lands of darkness and fear. They will remain there forever. They are already praying for death, but no death will release them."
For a long moment, the companions—the last surviving Vir Requis—stared down at the village. Finally Kyrie nodded.
"Great!" he said. "Just great. We finally defeat the griffins, and now these guys show up. As much as I'd love to fight them too, and start a whole new war, I think I'll pass. Not our problem. Osanna is infested with nightshades? Let Dies Irae handle them. Come on, Benedictus. Let's return to Requiem, or at least, what's left of it. This is not our war."
"But it is our war," Lacrimosa answered for her husband, voice haunted. "I remember tales of these nightshades. They were sealed centuries ago. Only the one who sits upon Osanna's throne could release them. That means these creatures work for Dies Irae now. And that means...."
Kyrie clutched his head and finished the sentence for her. "They're hunting us."
The nightshades below shrieked as one. Though they were a league away, and the companions were hidden in the trees, the nightshades saw them. Their eyes blazed, and they abandoned the village. They came flowing up the declivity, heading to the Vir Requis.
"Fly!" Benedictus shouted. He shifted into a black dragon, flapped his wings, and flew into the night. "Only light can stop them. Fly after me, we seek sunrise!"
The others shifted too, and the four Vir Requis flew in dragon form.
Dozens of nightshades howled behind them, chasing in the night.
GLORIAE
Gloriae the Gilded, Steel Maiden of Osanna, stood upon the walls of her palace and watched the city crumble.
Confutatis was known by many names. The Marble City. The Jewel of Osanna. The Cradle of Light. It was a sprawling city of a million souls. A city of forts, snaking walls, and gilded statues of Dies Irae. A city known for a military might that cowed the world. Today, as Gloriae stood upon the battlements of Confutatis, she did not recognize it. She saw no military might, no Sun God light, no glory for the poets to sing of.
She saw death, darkness, and cracking stone.
"Nightshades!" she cried, standing atop the tallest steeple of her palace, overlooking the city. "I have summoned you. I am your mistress. I sit upon Osanna's throne as my father lies d
ying, and you will obey me."
They swirled across the city, like wisps of black smoke with diamond eyes. Their teeth appeared as but mist, but they toppled towers, statues, and temples of the Sun God. Thousands of people ran through the streets. The nightshades dipped into every road, square, and alley, shrieking. People fell before them, and even from here upon her palace, Gloriae knew that nightshades were sucking up their souls. Bodies littered the streets, not dead but mindless, soulless.
"Nightshades!" Gloriae cried again. "I am the one who freed you. I sit on the throne. You will cease this destruction and obey me."
They laughed at her. A dozen flew toward her, eyes mocking, and swirled around her. They lifted her into the air, flapping her hair like storm winds, seeping under her armor to caress her skin.
"Gloriae the Gilded," they whispered in her mind. "Our mistress."
They laughed, a sound like thunder. She felt them tugging her soul, side to side, toying with her, like dogs fighting over a steak. They pulled wisps of her left and right, snapping her out and into her body.
"Stop this!" she screamed, burning with fury. "You will obey me. You will hunt the Vir Requis."
They hissed like water on a frying pan. "Oh, yes, great mistress. We will destroy the Vir Requis, yes. We will destroy all souls who live entombed in flesh. We will free them. We will free you."
They bore her into her palace, past halls and chambers, knocking down pictures and candlesticks and suits of armor. Servants fled before them. Guards attacked them with swords, only to fall soulless. The nightshades carried Gloriae into her court, and placed her upon her father's throne. They swirled around her, draped around her neck, and wrapped around her legs.
"Sit upon your throne, mistress," their voices mocked. "Rule us from here, oh mighty empress."
Gloriae's belly ached with fear. She had made a mistake, she knew. A horrible, shattering, tragic mistake for her and her empire. Father had warned her. Why hadn't she listened? Why had she freed these creatures?
She clenched her fists and snarled. "Release me, beasts. I gave you one task, and one task only. Hunt the Vir Requis."
They laughed. "Should we hunt you too then, Gloriae of Requiem?"
"I am not from Requiem," she said, but heard the doubt in her voice. Tears stung her eyes. She remembered what Lacrimosa said. I am your mother. She remembered shifting into a golden dragon in her chamber, of swearing to hide her shame. "Lacrimosa lied to me. She gave me her illness, the lizard's curse. I hate the Vir Requis. I will kill them all."
"Then will you kill yourself?" the nightshades asked.
They swirled around her like a hurricane, tugging her soul. She screamed. She felt herself split into a hundred pieces, then a thousand, then a million. The tiles of her court cracked. A column fell. And then Gloriae was inside the nightshades, not just the dozens around her, but the thousands that filled the world. Her soul had scattered and flew within them.
She saw Confutatis from their eyes. She saw temples fall, buildings collapse, streets rise and crash, raining cobblestones. She saw the multitudes dying, the rivers boiling, children crushed with stones. Other parts of Gloriae flew in the east. She saw nightshades attack the griffins, those griffins Dies Irae had once ruled, but now lost. She saw the griffins shriek, bite and claw, try to attack, but fall lifeless in the night. Their souls too had been claimed and tossed into darkness. Gloriae flew in the west, countless pieces of her soul within each nightshade. She saw them attack the salvanae, the true dragons of legend, and fell so many of those ancient, proud creatures.
And she saw herself.
In the shards of her soul, she saw a broken woman. She saw a woman broken in childhood, stolen. A woman raised in lies, in light that blinded her. She saw the old courts of Requiem, before her father had destroyed them. She walked there with Lacrimosa, her mother, in the halls of the Vir Requis. She heard their harps, and saw their birches, and—
No! Lies, all of it. These were the images Lacrimosa had planted within her, false memories.
"Where are the Vir Requis?" Gloriae said, speaking from every shattered part of her, into the mind of every nightshade. They laughed and hissed, and her soul dispersed and collected within them. She found the nightshades who chased the Vir Requis, and she gazed upon them from countless eyes.
They fled through the night, four dragons. Benedictus, their king, black and cruel. Lacrimosa, his wife of silver scales, beautiful and deceiving. Agnus Dei, the red dragon who'd attacked her in the ruins of Requiem. Kyrie Eleison, the cub, the boy who'd gored her leg with his horn.
"I will kill them," Gloriae vowed, urging the nightshades onward. "Destroy the world if you must. But destroy them with it. I command you."
As they hissed and howled, Gloriae sensed that she commanded nothing of their actions. They were humoring her. So be it, she managed to think even with her soul splintered across countless of these beings. So be it.
"So long as the Vir Requis die, I've done my job."
Slumped in the throne back at Confutatis, the body of Gloriae twitched, clenched its fists, and smiled.
DIES IRAE
Dies Irae awoke to pain.
He tried to open his eyes, but only one would open. His left eye blazed in agony, and when Dies Irae brought his fingers to it, they touched bandages. More bandages covered his arm, which hurt too—the pain of fire.
What had happened? He could not remember. He could barely remember his name. Grunting, he moved his head, though it shot stabs of pain through him, and looked around. He lay in a Sun God temple. Candles covered the floors and walls, a golden disk shimmered behind an altar, and priests in white masks moved about, chanting.
"Lord Irae," spoke one priest, kneeling above him. The man wore all white—white robes, a white hood, and a white mask. "The Sun God has woken you."
Dies Irae struggled to push himself up on his elbows. The priests had placed him upon white marble tiles. Dies Irae grunted. Couldn't they have given him a bed? But Sun clerics had always been an odd lot; powerful, yes, but strange of ways.
"How long was I unconscious?" Dies Irae asked. It felt like a long time. His memories were still fuzzy. He remembered riding out on Volucris, the prince of griffins, but little else.
The priest bowed his head. "Seven days of glory, your lordship, and seven nights of tribulation."
"Seven days!" Dies Irae said, feeling the blood leave his face. He struggled to his feet. The cleric watched silently. When he was standing, Dies Irae found that his knees shook. He had to lean against a column. A servant brought him a bowl of soup, and Dies Irae wanted to wave it aside, then changed his mind and took the bowl. He drank deeply. Hot beef broth.
"Seven days," he repeated softly. What in the Sun God's name had knocked him out so soundly? He frowned, and the movement made his left eye scream in pain. He felt blood trickle down his cheek, and he tasted it on his lips.
The taste brought the memories back. They hit him like a blow, so hard he dropped the bowl. It cracked, spreading broth across the floor like blood.
Benedictus.
His brother.
"Yes, you did this to me, brother," Dies Irae whispered. "You thrust jagged metal into my eye. You burned me. You—"
Dies Irae froze.
He reached for the amulet that would always hang around his neck. The Griffin Heart. The tamer of griffins.
It was gone.
The weredragons had taken it.
Rage blazed in Dies Irae, stronger than the pain. Dies Irae swung his left arm, the iron mace arm. He knocked down a candlestick. When a servant ran to lift the candle, Dies Irae swung the mace at him too. The mace hit the boy's head. Dies Irae heard the crack of the skull, a beautiful sound. He had missed that sound. The boy fell to the floor, head caved in and bleeding.
"They took the Griffin Heart," Dies Irae said, turning to stare at the priest.
The priest nodded.
Dies Irae stared silently, trembling. Then he marched to the doorways and burst outside
. He was barefoot and clad in temple robes, but he didn't care. He had to see Gloriae. He had to see his daughter.
Outside the temple, more pain awaited.
The city lay crumbled and burning around him. In the twilight, Dies Irae saw nightshades flowing across the skies, toppling forts and towers. Three nightshades flew toward a towering, gilded statue of himself, of a young Dies Irae with two arms and both eyes. As he watched, the nightshades toppled the statue. It fell and crushed a house beneath it.
Dies Irae laughed.
He wanted to rage, to scream, to kill. But he only laughed.
The priest stood behind him, silent. Dies Irae addressed the man. "I'm wounded in battle. One week later, my griffins are gone, the weredragons have escaped, and the nightshades have fled the Well of Night to destroy my city. Am I missing anything?"
The priest lowered his head and said nothing.
Ice flowed down Dies Irae's spine. He grabbed the priest's shoulders. "What else? Tell me. By the Sun God, speak."
The priest raised his eyes. Behind his mask, they were black, deep set, aching. "Your daughter, my lord. The lady Gloriae the Gilded. You... you must see her."
Dies Irae began marching through the city, leaving the priest behind. Nightshades howled around him, toppling buildings. The streets were deserted. Only stray cats and dogs, a few beggars, and some soldiers remained; they were fleeing the nightshades, scuttling from ruin to ruin. A nightshade swooped toward him, mouth of smoke opening, revealing white teeth. It shrieked, then seemed to recognize Dies Irae. It spun around and fled. Dies Irae allowed himself a small smile and kept walking.
He hadn't seen such ruin since Requiem's fall. Confutatis, the Marble City, was utterly destroyed. A few buildings remained standing, but nightshades swarmed over them. Bodies littered the roads, both of soldiers and civilians. They were not dead, but neither were they alive. Their hearts pulsed, and their lungs pumped air, but no souls filled the shells. Those souls, Dies Irae knew, now screamed in the realms of night.
Song of Dragons: The Complete Trilogy Page 28