Requiem's Song (Book 1) (5 page)

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 images 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."