Hands clasped behind her back, she approached her chieftain.
Zerra sat upon a hill overlooking the totem pole. Several of his hunters sat around him, drinking ale, gnawing on bones, and belching. When the men saw her approach, they lowered their mugs and narrowed their eyes. Zerra grunted and shifted upon the boulder he sat on.
“Return to your work, wretch.” He spat. “Wash our pottery and clean up our scraps, then sleep among the dogs where you belong.”
Laira took a shuddering breath. She thought of her mother’s eyes. She thought of the stars above. She thought of her distant home, a mere haze of memory. She raised her crooked chin—the chin he had shattered—and tried to speak in a clear, loud voice. That voice was slurred now, another victim of Zerra’s fist, but she gave it all the gravity she could.
“I can do more than clean and serve, my chieftain.” She squared her narrow shoulders. “Allow me to serve you better. One of your hunters has fallen to the fever. One of your rocs, the female Neiva, is missing a rider. Tomorrow let me mount Neiva. Let me hunt with you.”
For a moment the men stared at her, eyes wide.
Then they burst out laughing.
Zerra tossed his empty bowl at her. It slammed into her face and shattered. She gasped and raised her fingers to her cheek; they came away bloody.
Not waiting for more abuse, Laira turned and fled.
She spent that night trembling as she worked—scrubbing dishes in the stream, cleaning fur tunics, and collecting bones for the dogs. Her blood dripped and her belly felt too sour for food. When finally her work was done, she curled up among the dogs. They licked her wounds, and she held them close, and her eyes dampened.
“I am a daughter of a prince,” she whispered into their fur, trembling in the cold. “I am blessed with forbidden magic. I will be strong. I will hunt.”
When dawn broke, the tribe moved again. They packed up their tents. They mounted their totem on wheels. Their hunters flew above upon rocs, shrieking in the wind, while the rest of the tribe shuffled below through the mud.
Laira brought up the rear as always. Sometimes, walking here at the back, she had dreamed of slinking behind a tree, running to the hills, even shifting into a dragon and flying away. But the rocs forever circled above, and if she lingered too far behind, Zerra would swoop down and lash her with his crop. And so she walked on, weak with hunger, her head spinning, following the others. She had not eaten more than morsels in days, and her belly rumbled, but there was no food to be found. When they crested a hill lush with grass and bushes, she picked a few mint leaves and chewed them, staving off the hunger for a while. When she saw worms in the dirt, she managed to grab one. She swallowed it down quickly before disgust overwhelmed her.
That evening she served the camp again, preparing food, cleaning, washing. And again she approached Zerra.
He sat upon a fallen log thick with mushrooms, gnawing on a bison rib. Laira stood before him, half his size, a weary little wisp of a thing. She raised her chin, straightened her back, and said, “Let me hunt.”
He clubbed her with the bone, then laughed as she fled.
“I will be a huntress,” she vowed that night, huddling with the dogs. Among them she found a bone with some meat still on it, and she ate the paltry meal. “I am the daughter of a prince. I am blessed with forbidden magic. I am strong and I will hunt.”
Because hunting did not only mean honor, a rise in status, and perhaps true meals and no more beatings. Lying among the dogs, Laira stared up at the dragon stars.
Hunting meant flying.
She had never forgotten the beating of her wings, the feel of open air around her. She had flown only once as a dragon, the day her mother had died, but the memory still warmed her in the cold.
“If I cannot fly as a dragon again,” she prayed to those stars, “let me fly upon a roc, a proud huntress of my tribe.”
For six nights she approached Zerra, demanding to join the hunters. For six nights he scoffed, tossed bowls or bones or stones her way, and laughed at her pain.
On the seventh night, she waited until he retired to his tent.
That night she approached that tent, the greatest one in the camp, a towering structure of tiger pelts and cedar branches topped with gilded skulls. Fingers trembling, Laira did something she knew could mean death, could mean burning at the stake.
She pulled back the leather flap and she stepped into her chieftain’s home.
He sat upon a flat stone, polishing his leaf-shaped sword with oil and rag. None in the Goldtusk tribe knew the secrets of metal; only the loftiest warriors owned jewelry of gold or knives of copper. Most still tipped their arrows with flint. A sword of pure bronze, captured from the corpse of a great champion from the northern villages, was the most valuable artifact the tribe owned aside from their gilded tusk. It signified to all that Zerra was mightiest of his tribe.
But I come from a kingdom of bronze, Laira told herself. Mother told me that thousands of warriors there wield bronze khopeshes—great swords shaped as sickles—and that my father leads them all. I will be brave. I will not fear this man.
Before he could rise to his feet and strike her, she spoke.
“Why do you hurt me?”
He froze, risen to a crouch, and stared at her. He said nothing.
Her voice trembled and her knees felt weak, but she would not look away. She stared into his eyes—one baleful and blazing, the other drooping in the ruined half of his face.
“I did not burn you,” she said, voice slurred from the wounds he had given her. “My mother had the curse. She could become the reptile. And she paid for her sins. I am not diseased.” Her eyes stung and she clenched her fists, refusing to cry before him. “You beat me. You starve me. You make me sleep with the dogs. But I am no reptile. I am not my mother. I have served you well, and whenever you beat me down, I stood up again. Whenever you hurt me, I grew stronger. My face is ruined now as yours is. And our spirits are both strong.” She took a step closer. “In the mud, in the dog pen, in puddles of my own blood, I proved my strength to you. Let me show you this strength upon a roc, a bow in my hand. I will hunt with you, and I will prove that I’m worth more than scrubbing your feet.” She took another step, raised her chin, and stared at him with all the strength she could summon. Her tears were gone. “I will kill for you.”
Slowly, his joints creaking, he rose to his feet. He loomed over her; the top of her head did not even reach his shoulders. He stank of ale, sweat, and his old injury.
“You have the curse.” His voice was low, full of danger. “You lie, maggot. Your mother had the reptile in her veins. You carry it within you too.”
“I do not!” She raised her chin, staring up at him, refusing to cower. She would show him her strength in this tent. “You lie to yourself so you may hurt me. I cannot fly as a dragon, but I will fly upon a roc.” She raised her fist. “I am small and weak; you made me so. But my spirit is as strong as bronze.”
Quick as a striking cobra, he reached out and clutched her throat.
She gasped, unable to breathe.
“Your spirit is strong?” He leaned down to bring his face close to hers. His breath assailed her. “I could just . . . tighten my grip. And your neck would just . . . snap. Like a pheasant bone. You are a woman, and all women are weak.”
She sputtered, struggling for air, forcing down the urge to strike him. His grip loosened just the slightest, and she whispered hoarse words.
“I am a woman, yes, my chieftain. And I have a woman’s strength.” Even as he held her throat, she tugged at the lacing of her cloak. The patchwork of rat furs fell to the ground. “I have a woman’s gifts to give.”
He released her throat, and she gasped and held her neck, sucking in deep breaths. He took a step back and admired her. She stood naked before him, chin still raised.
She was not comely, Laira knew. Years of hunger had left her body frail. She had not the wide hips or rich breasts the men liked to carve into their i
mages of stone. Red marks covered her skin—the scars of the leeches Shedah, the tribe’s shaman, often placed upon her. The crone would mix the blood in potions she drank; she claimed that the blood of a princess gave her long life. Shedah lingered on in her mockery of life, and the leechcraft left Laira bruised and added to her fragility.
And yet, despite her meager size and marked body, lust filled Zerra’s eyes. Men such as him, hunters and conquerors, were easy to please. They saw every woman, even a scrawny and broken thing like her, as lands to conquer.
“I will give you this body,” she said. “But my chieftain . . . you must give me a roc.”
He stared at her for a long moment, and strangely she no longer trembled. She was no longer afraid. She did not feel exposed. She felt, for the first time in years, in control of her life.
This body, she thought, is the only power I have left.
He doffed his own cloak and removed his tunic. He stood naked before her. The scar that covered half his face—the burn of dragonfire—spread down half his body, twisting his arm, chest, and leg, and even half his manhood bore the marks.
He grabbed her arms.
He took her into his bed of animal hides.
As he thrust into her, nearly crushing her with his weight, she closed her eyes and bit her lip. He pressed against her, slick with sweat, and the pain drove through her, and she clenched her fists and thought of the sky. In her mind she was a dragon again, a beautiful animal of golden scales and long claws, too strong to hurt, too proud to tame. She flew upon the wind, free and noble and far from home.
JEID
JEID BLACKSMITH STOOD ABOVE THE grave of his daughter, head lowered and fists clenched.
A boulder marked the hilltop grave, overgrown with ivy and moss. An oak shaded it, and autumn leaves covered the soil, a crimson carpet. Below the hill rolled valleys of mist, scattered birches, and rocks engraved with the runes of ancient men. No rune, however, marked this makeshift tombstone. If the men of nearby villages knew that here, under this earth, lay a fallen weredragon, they would dig up the bones, they would smash them with stones, and they would pray to their totems to curse the soul of the creature.
“But you were no creature to me,” Jeid said, jaw tight and eyes dry. “You were my daughter, Requiem. And you were blessed.”
Weredragons, they called him and his family—cursed beings, monsters to burn. Jeid had fled their villages long ago. He had given his family a new home, a new name.
His head spun and he fell to his knees. The wind gusted, blowing dry leaves into his shaggy hair and beard. Jeid was a strong man, a blacksmith with thick arms and a barrel chest, but now, here, before his fallen daughter, he felt weaker than old tin.
“I named our new home after you.” He placed his hand between the fallen leaves, feeling the soil, feeling her soul below. “Requiem. And we are no longer weredragons. We are Vir Requis, people of Requiem.” His eyes stung. “I swear to you, your name will live on—a tribe to last for eternity.”
But you will not be here to see it.
Jeid lowered his head, his despair overwhelming. That day returned to him again—as it returned every time he came here. It had been years ago, but still the pain felt raw, still the wound bled inside him.
He had fled his smithy, his village of Oldforge, the only home he’d known. Blessed by the stars—cursed, the villagers called it—he could grow wings, breathe fire, take flight as a dragon. He had passed this gift to his children.
“You called us monsters, brother,” he whispered. “You called us cursed, Zerra.”
His twin—cruel, envious, full of venom—had railed against Jeid’s so-called illness. And so Jeid had fled, taking his children with him. Requiem had been only a toddler, barely old enough to shift into a dragon herself. For a long time, they had wandered the wilderness, finally finding a home upon the escarpment, a hidden crack in the world, a place of secrets, of exile. Jeid had thought that would appease the villagers. He’d been wrong.
On this day years ago—the autumn equinox—Jeid had taken Requiem, a sweet child with soft brown locks, on a flight. Requiem had been but a small dragon, no larger than a deer, wobbly as she flew. They glided upon the wind, laughing, counting the trees below. It was freedom. It was joy. It was the best day of Jeid’s life, and it turned into the worst.
“Look, Dada, food!” Requiem cried, pointing a claw below. The small, blue dragon laughed and dived.
“Requiem, wait!” Jeid called after her.
She ignored him, squealing with laughter as she swooped. The lamb stood upon the field below, groggy, lost from its flock and not fleeing. Before Requiem even reached it, the lamb fell over, dead before the small dragon’s mouth closed around it.
“Requiem, wait!”
But she ate the meat.
And she cried.
And she shook and vomited and begged her father for help.
She lost her magic and lay in the grass, a human girl, skin pale, clutching her swollen belly.
Shaking with rage and fear, Jeid carried her back to the escarpment. He and his father, the wise healer Eranor, spent two nights feeding her healing herbs, praying for her, holding her. And yet the poison spread. On the third night she died.
And now, years later, Jeid knelt above the grave, and that grief burned with no less intensity.
“I miss you, Requiem,” he whispered, touching her tombstone. “You’ve been gone for years, and I promise you. I will make our tribe strong—for your memory, for your name. Requiem will survive.”
A voice, soft and trembling, rose behind him.
“Are you . . . are you Jeid? Jeid the weredragon?”
He spun around, fists tight, tears in his eyes.
A young woman stood there, soot staining her face. She had long, black hair and wore cotton in the manner of villagers. A tin bracelet adorned her wrist, and she held a shepherd’s crook. Tears filled her eyes and her full, pink lips shook. She seemed vaguely familiar—perhaps a face he had seen years ago when she’d been a child, when he’d still lived among others.
Jeid growled. “You are from the village of Oldforge across the river. I recognize the cotton you wear. Leave this place. This is my territory. Leave or I burn you.”
She trembled. “Please. Please . . . I need help. I am Ciana. Are you the weredragon?”
He straightened. “I am Vir Requis. That is our name.” He took a step closer, fists still clenched. “The kind you hunt.”
Ciana blinked away tears. “My . . . my brother is a were— a Vir Requis. They’re going to burn him. Please. Please. I came to you for help. They have him tied to the stake. They say they’ll burn him at sundown.” Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she reached out to him. “I don’t have the magic. I came to find you. If you can become a dragon, if you are truly Jeid Blacksmith, Chieftain of Dragons . . . help him. Save him.”
Jeid stared, frozen.
Another Vir Requis.
His heart throbbed and his legs felt weak.
For years he had dreamed, prayed, flown across the world to find others. For years, he had come to this grave, vowed to his daughter to build a tribe in her name, a tribe of others like them—who could turn into dragons, who were hunted, feared, poisoned, killed.
For years, he had found no others.
“You lie!” He stepped closer, teeth bared. He raised his fist as if to strike her. “There are no others. There are no more Vir Requis in this world. Just me. Just my family. Just us that you hunt and kill.”
Ciana did not flinch. She met his gaze steadily, and some strength filled her damp eyes.
“There is another. But if you let him die, Jeid, your family will truly be the last.” Gingerly she reached out and touched his arm. “Come with me. Save him. Please.” Fire lit in her eyes. “Become the dragon again. Grow your wings, sound your roar, and take flight.”
Another Vir Requis . . .
His head spun. Could it be—another like him? Afraid? Alone?
He growled.
He stepped away from the girl.
And so I fly again.
With a deep breath, Jeid shifted.
Copper scales rose across him, clattering like a suit of armor. Wings burst out from his back with a thud. Fangs sprouted from his mouth and claws grew from his fingers. He tossed back his head and roared, and his fire blasted skyward in a pillar. Standing before him in the grass—now so small next to his larger form—Ciana took a step back and gasped.
Jeid beat his wings, rising several feet aboveground. The blast of air scattered leaves, bent the old oak’s branches, and fluttered Ciana’s hair. Snorting smoke, Jeid reached out, lifted the woman in his claws, and soared.
He caught an air current and glided, wings wide. Since Requiem had died, he had dared not fly in daylight. Too many still wished to fell dragons from the sky. Warriors of the villages bore arrows coated with poison. His twin, the cruel Zerra, now wandered the wilderness, leading a pack of a hundred rocs, oversized vultures that feared the escarpment but would gladly hunt a lone dragon in open sky. Yet now Jeid flew in the sunlight, blowing his fire, roaring for the great hope, the dream of Requiem, his most sacred prayer.
We are not alone.
Behind him rose the escarpment—the cliffs of stone and trees and hidden caves, his fortress. The misty hills and valleys rolled below. Ahead stretched the River Ranin, the border of his territory, and there beyond, nestled along the bank, was his old home. The village of Oldforge.
Fifty-odd buildings rose along the riverbank. Most were simple huts of clay, branches, and straw, humble homes with a hole in each roof to vent the smoke of cooking fires. Vegetables grew in backyard gardens, and pigs rooted in pens. Several boats floated upon the river, tethered to posts.
The largest building, and the only one built of stone, was the smithy. It rose taller than two men, topped with a dome. Jeid’s grandfather himself had built this smithy. Once Jeid had forged tin and bronze there, had raised his children there. Today those who had exiled him lived within those walls.
The villagers filled the pebbly village square, clad in fur, cotton, and canvas. Mud coated them and their hair hung long and scraggly. A great pyre rose among them, and upon it, tied to a stake, stood a young man.
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