Authors: Daniel Arenson
"Fly, friend." He
pressed his bare heels—he wore no spurs or even boots this night—into her
tenderspots. "Fly with me."
She flew.
They soared
high over the square, so high they soared above the Temple. They flew east
across the city, and he looked down at the endless streets, this hive of ants.
The stars shone above. One of the constellations, Gemini had always thought,
looked a little like a firedrake, like Pyre. Flying here under the stars, he
felt as if he rode the constellation itself.
They flew until
they left the city behind, and then they glided over the wilderness, floating through
endless black. Only him, her, the heat of their bodies pressed together, the
fire in her maw. When Pyre tilted her scaly head, and he saw her face, it
seemed to him that she was smiling, that she was at peace, that she enjoyed
this flight as much as he did.
He kept riding
her through the darkness, the wind in his hair and nostrils, rising and
falling, and it seemed to him better than loving the woman, better than loving
a thousand women. He was riding a firedrake, and he was free, bonded with her,
a primal animal of the sky.
CADE
He walked between the bookshelves,
following Fidelity through the small library. Cade had a million questions he
wanted to ask. What was Requiem? Was Fidelity a Vir Requis too, and did she
know others? Who was Domi and how had she known to send Cade here? Yet when he
began to ask, Fidelity shook her head.
"Wait."
They reached a heavy
oaken shelf topped with holy books bound in leather, tillvine blossoms upon their
spines. Fidelity chose one book—a small collection of hymns—and tugged it
downward. The entire shelf creaked and slid on secret hinges. Cade's eyes
widened. The shelf slid three feet, revealing a trapdoor in the floor.
"I've heard that books
can be portals to new places." Cade whistled. "I didn't know they meant it
literally."
Fidelity gave him a wry
smile. "Wonderful. Now come on. Follow me."
She tugged the trapdoor
open, revealing a wooden staircase that led into a cellar. She stepped into the
shadows and he followed, walking close behind. She grabbed a glass lamp which
hung on the wall and stepped off the last step. Cade joined her, and his eyes
widened further. He lost his breath.
"Welcome," Fidelity
said, "to the true Library of Sanctus."
"
This
," Cade
said, "is a library."
The chamber was no
larger than the library aboveground—about the size of his humble bakery back
home. But its wonder was not contained by its size. Oak shelves lined the
walls, the wood lovingly carved and polished. Glass jars glowed on the top
shelves, casting golden, white, and yellow lights, their fuel a mystery to
Cade. An aromatic haze hung in the air. Many shelves held curiosities: model
ships inside bottles, bowls of seashells and crystals, daggers with jeweled hilts,
toy soldiers and dragons carved of polished stone, and counter-squares boards
with pieces of ebony and silver.
But mostly the shelves held books, and these books were more
wonderful than any of those aboveground. Some books were bound in richly worked
leather, their spines displaying trees, stars, suns, and animals. Other books
sported covers of precious metal inlaid with gems, while some covers were
carved of olive wood. Many books lay open upon tables, displaying colorful illustrations
of animals, mythological creatures, and grand cities with many towers. Cade
glanced at the titles on the spines:
Old Songs of the Forest
,
Artifacts
of Wizardry and Power
,
The True Dragons of Salvandos
, and many other
titles hinting at wonder and arcane lore.
Here were no holy
books. These were books the Cured Temple would burn—and would burn anyone who
read them.
"It's wonderful," Cade
whispered.
Fidelity nodded and her
voice softened; she spoke with the same wistfulness, the same aura of holiness,
that Domi had used when speaking the name of a forgotten kingdom. "The most
wonderful place in the world. Here do we guard the world's knowledge."
A raspy, jarring sound
rose ahead—somebody clearing his throat. An armchair scraped across the floor, creaking
around to reveal a man. Cade started; he had thought Fidelity and he were alone.
With his tattered rags
and muddy skin, Cade couldn't have made a pretty sight. The man in the armchair
looked even worse. His garments were fine enough—sturdy trousers, a burlap
shirt, even good leather boots—but his face made Cade take a step back. It
looked, he thought, like the face of a barbarian from the depths of the wilderness,
more the countenance of an ape than a man.
The brow was heavy, the
jaw square and wide, the forehead deeply lined. It was a massive head, large
and craggy like a boulder, the skin olive-toned. White stubble grew across this
jagged face, almost thick enough to be called a beard, but the man's eyebrows
were black as coal, thicker than most men's mustaches, and his hair was long
and wild and darker than midnight, falling halfway down his back.
But worst of
all were the eyes. Those eyes were sunken, blacker than pits of oil, and
haunted like the dark windows of fallen castles. Here were the eyes of pain
itself, the eyes of a man who had seen too much to bear, who carried too many
memories, who bore bitterness and rage and grief that would crush men of lesser
strength. Cade had stared into the eyes of cruelty before—Mercy's blue glare
still haunted him—but this man's eyes were even worse. Cade knew that they
would haunt him for the rest of his life.
The man cleared his
throat again, an ugly sound. He spoke in a raspy voice. "The world's knowledge?
Ha! The legends of a
lost
world." He placed a pipe in his mouth, inhaled
deeply, then sputtered out smoke with a cough and curse. "A world gone.
Forgotten. A world that can never return." He turned to stare at Fidelity. "Who
is this, daughter? Why have you brought him here? Is he some boy you fancy?
None may see these books. I will have to snap his neck."
Cade gasped—partly at
the threat, partly at the realization that this grizzled, gruff man, leathery
and foul and cruel, could have fathered the fair Fidelity with her large blue
eyes, silky golden hair, and warm embraces.
"Father!" Fidelity
said, her eyes lighting up. "Domi sent him. He's . . . oh, stars, he's one of
us. A Vir Requis." She turned toward Cade, smiling. "Show him, Caleric!"
"My true name is Cade,"
he said softly, suddenly feeling awkward with father and daughter both staring
at him. "Cade Baker. From a village called Favilla in the west, south of the
mountains. I . . ." He gulped under the man's withering glare. "Never mind the
geography for now."
Cade looked around him,
mindful of the close quarters, and repeated his performance—summoning just
enough magic to grow scales and the buds of wings, then returning to human form
before he could topple the shelves around him.
For a long moment,
Fidelity's father stared at him, eyes hard. He puffed on his pipe.
"So . . . my daughter
has found another," he finally said, but no relief or joy filled his voice,
only bitterness.
Cade shook his head. "Technically,
I'm the one who found Fidelity. I traveled for days across the grasslands to
get here, and—"
"I mean my other
daughter." The man coughed. "Domi. She's the one who sent you here, isn't she?"
Cade's eyes widened. "Domi
is . . ." He turned back toward Fidelity. "Your sister?"
The two looked nothing
alike. Fidelity was all prim and proper, what with her spectacles, braided
blond hair, and trim vest with its polished brass buttons. Domi had been a wild
ragamuffin, her red hair all in tangles, her skinny body clad in rags, her face
smeared with dirt.
Fidelity sighed. "Apparently
she is, though I sometimes swear she was switched at birth. Domi is a wild
little beast, an errant girl who made very, very bad choices in her life." She
looked at Cade, tapping her chin. "At least she made one good choice sending
you here. Probably didn't know what to make of you." She stepped closer and
placed a hand on Cade's shoulder. "We'll help you. Korvin—my father—is perhaps
a little gruff, but he's wise. He'll teach you. He'll—"
"—have no part in this,"
Korvin finished for her. He placed down his pipe, lifted his chair by the
armrests, and spun it back around, turning its back to Cade and Fidelity. "We
have no room here to shelter you. Leave this place, Cade Baker, and go home."
Cade gasped. "Go home?"
Even Fidelity seemed
taken aback. "Father, I—"
"Silence!" Korvin
roared, his voice echoing through the chamber. "Leave this place. Leave me. Go!"
Fidelity began walking
toward the exit, but Cade stood still, feet planted firmly on the floor. "No."
Korvin leaped to his
feet and stomped around the armchair. Cade had thought Korvin's face
intimidating before; now it was terrifying. The man's leathery skin reddened,
and his eyes blazed with black fire. His teeth ground. Cade felt the blood drain
from his face; Korvin towered over him, an entire foot taller. The man's fists
clenched, and veins rose along his arms and neck, and he seemed to Cade as
beastly as a firedrake.
"Leave," Korvin said
again, the words squeezing through his clenched jaw.
Cade knew that Korvin
could crush him, could snap his bones within his gnarled fists. But still he
would not budge.
"Cade," Fidelity said
softly and placed her hand on his shoulder. "Let's go, maybe tomorrow we—"
"No," Cade again. He
stood frozen. He refused to break eye contact with Korvin. "I have no home
left. The paladins burned it down. The paladins killed my family—all because of
my magic. I traveled for days across the wilderness, fighting the Cured Temple,
slaying paladins with my dragonfire, all to find this place. To find answers."
Though his insides trembled, Cade forced his voice to remain steady, forced
himself to stare into Korvin's eyes. "You want me gone? You'll have to answer
some questions first." He took a deep breath and thought of Domi's eyes, of her
voice in his ear. "What is Requiem?"
The rage seemed to
leave Korvin like air from a deflating bellows. The grizzled giant's shoulders
stooped, his fists loosened, and he sighed deeply.
"A memory," Korvin
said. "That is all. A forbidden memory we must not speak of."
"Yet a memory we
preserve," Fidelity said, "while all others have forgotten." She glanced toward
Korvin. "Father, can I show him?"
The man grunted. "No
use for it. Pointless to fill the boy's head with dreams. Show him if you must."
He trudged across the room, knocking Cade back, and approached the stairs. "But
I'll hear none of it. I've had enough of damn stories and the damned dreams of
fools."
With that, the burly
man stomped up the stairs, leaving Fidelity and Cade alone in the cellar.
Finally Cade allowed
himself to let down his guard. He shuddered and wiped his brow; his hand came
back damp with sweat. "Blimey, Fidelity, has anyone ever told you that your old
man is a right nightmare? I mean, I've seen firedrakes I'd prefer spending an
afternoon with."
Fidelity lowered her
head. "He does not mean to be cruel. He is hurt. Cruelty always springs from
pain. He grieves."
"Grieves for what?"
Cade stared up the staircase and shuddered again. "He didn't exactly seem
mournful to me. More like he wanted to rip out my throat."
"He grieves for you,"
Fidelity said softly. "For me. For Domi. For any others who might exist. For my
fallen mother. For Requiem." A tear streamed down her cheek. "We all grieve for
Requiem."
"Fidelity, you and your
father . . . you're Vir Requis too, aren't you?"
She nodded and closed
her eyes. Before him, she began to shift. Sea-blue scales appeared upon her
body, and indigo wings grew from her back. Before she could complete the
transformation and knock down the bookshelves, she released the magic,
returning to human form.
"My family and
I are Vir Requis," she said. "We've only ever met two others. Until you, Cade.
You are a great blessing."
His eyes stung.
Other Vir Requis. I'm not alone.
"A blessing?" He
lowered his head. "Your father didn't seem to think so."
"It is
because
he
thinks so,
because
your existence is precious, that he rages . . . rages
for what could have been, for what we lost. I will show you."
She took his hand and
led him around the armchair. The seat faced a shelf where only one book stood,
a single volume wrapped in leather; it seemed to Cade almost like a holy relic.
Fidelity gingerly lifted the book and laid it on a table. On its leather cover
appeared words in silver:
The Book of Requiem
.
"This book contains all
the lost knowledge of a world that was," Fidelity said. "It is the heirloom of
our people, a single book containing the lore of a nation." She smiled shakily.
"For a hundred years, we few—we who carry the magic within us—have been
guarding this book, guarding the hope that someday Requiem can return." She
touched his arm. "It's all right, Cade. You can read it."
Cade opened the book
and began to read . . . and his body began to shake.
His eyes dampened.
Visions of dragons,
marble towers, great wars and great golden eras of peace, heroes, villains,
dreams, hopes, kings and queens, pillars of fire, and—
His body trembled
wildly. The room spun. He slammed the book shut with a shower of dust.
"It can't be," he
whispered.
Fidelity watched him, a
sad smile on her lips. "The world that was. The kingdom we once were." Her
voice dropped to a whisper. "
Requiem.
"
Cade shook his head
wildly. He paced the room, clenching and loosening his fists. "But there's only
ever been the Cured Temple! Spirit, Fidelity! A world full of Vir Requis,
flying free, no priests to purify us? Great cities of marble? Kings and queens
stretching back five thousand years? Dragons—countless dragons—flying openly in
the sky?" He laughed bitterly. "A fairy tale. Just a story from a book."