A Memory of Fire (The Dragon War, Book 3) (14 page)

I
couldn't bear to lose you too,
he wanted to say.

Stay
on this island in safety,
he wanted to say.

I
love you more than Requiem and all that's in it,
he wanted to say.

Yet he could say none of those
things. And so he only stood in the sand, looking at her, at the
sunset in her hair, at her soft eyes, at her tanned and feline face.
And Valien realized that for the first time in three years, when he
looked upon Kaelyn, he did not see the woman she looked like. He no
longer saw Marilion.

"I see you, Kaelyn,"
he whispered.

Here upon the beach, on this
last night before the fire, she was not a ghost, but a living flame.

She embraced him and whispered
into his ear, "I'm afraid."

He cupped her pale cheek in his
hand. "I know."

She clutched his hands and
squeezed them. "I'm afraid for Rune. And for our people. But
mostly I fear this night, this darkness, this silence before the
storm." She smiled shakily. "The last night before battle
always seems so long, doesn't it?"

He nodded. "I never know
if I want these nights to end quickly or last forever."

"To last forever," she
said and touched his cheek. "I wish tomorrow would never come.
Valien, will you share my hut tonight? Hold me on this long, dark
night, for tomorrow the fire will burn."

They walked to her island home,
a shelter woven of branches and leaves. Valien had spent his nights
sleeping alone upon the island's peak, perched upon the hilltop in
dragon form, always half awake and ready to fly should the Legions
find their haven. Yet tonight he entered her hut, a little nook with
a bed of grass, womb-like and warm.

He stood at the entrance.
Kaelyn sat down upon the grass, pulled her knees to her chest, and
looked up at him. Suddenly she laughed shyly and lowered her eyes.

"I'm sorry!" she said.
"It's not very roomy, but... it's warmer and cozier than the
hilltop you sleep on."

She looked down at her knees and
her cheeks flushed.

Feeling awkward and cumbersome,
far too clunky and rough, Valien cleared his throat. He sat beside
her, leaned back, and allowed himself a smile.

"Very warm and cozy,"
he said. He lay down and placed his hands behind his head.

She lay on her side, facing him,
her hair brushing his shoulder, her body an inch away from his. She
looked at him silently, and Valien was struck by how young she
seemed. She was only twenty. He was more than twice her age—and
probably twice her weight. Lying beside her, he felt too old, too
grizzled and ragged, a disheveled bear sharing a den with a graceful
young lioness.

"Valien," she
whispered as darkness fell, "can we win this?"

"We will win."

"Do you think... do you
think Rune is still alive?" Her voice trembled.

Valien closed his eyes. He
hadn't stopped thinking of Rune since arriving on this island. Yet
tonight, Kaelyn's soft breath against him, he did not want to
remember Rune or Marilion or Requiem. He wanted this one, last night
in shadowy warmth. He wanted no more ghosts, only this woman beside
him.

"I don't know," he
said. "All I know is that we must fly. We must keep fighting.
We must fly to victory or death. We are Requiem. Our wings forever
seek our sky."

She nodded. "For so long I
hid in darkness. For so many years, my father beat me, burned me,
broke my body, and I hid under my bed, and in the dungeons of our
tower, and in the shadows of my own mind." She held his hand
tight. "You taught me to fly, Valien. And I will keep flying
with you. Always."

He wiped a tear from her cheek.
She gazed at him with damp, huge eyes, and her lips shook. She
placed a hand on his cheek, leaned forward, and kissed his forehead.
He smoothed her hair, and she kissed his lips.

She had never kissed him before.
Her lips were small but full, pink and very soft, and they shot
warmth through him, warmth better than all the rye he would drink in
his years of darkness. She was too young for him, her hair too soft
in his calloused fingers, her eyes too fair for the pain he carried.
Yet he held her close, her body lithe and warm under his hands, and
he kissed her, and she smiled. He had never known eyes so large and
bright, even here in the shadows.

She climbed atop him. She began
to unlace his shirt, her fingers shy and hesitant at first, then
gaining speed, and soon she tugged at the cloth with the hunger of a
starving man for food. His hands moved over her body—large, rough
hands that could encircle her waist. He pulled the tunic off her,
and she sat atop him, naked in the last glimmers of sunset. Her body
was slim, her breasts small and pale, and he kissed her neck, and she
buried her hands in his hair.

He wanted to stop this. She was
too pure, too young and virginal, too full of life for an old,
scarred wreck. But he could not stop. He needed this; he needed her
now more than he'd ever needed his rye or vengeance or starlight.
They moved faster, naked in the darkness, and the last light faded.
He rolled atop her, and she gasped and moaned and clutched his
shoulders. He held her hands, and she shuddered and arched beneath
him, legs wrapped around his back. He moved above her. In the
darkness he felt like a dragon flying through a storm, fleeing a
burning city, roaring in pain as the terrors of the world chased him.

I
couldn't save you, Marilion.

He clutched the babe in his
claws and flew, rising and falling on the wind, seeking shelter in
the night. Still he flew through that storm. Still that darkness
wrapped around him.

Fire blazed through him, and
Kaelyn gasped below him, and her fingernails almost tore his skin.
She bit his shoulder to stifle her cry, and they lay still.

He rolled onto his back, and she
nestled against him, her head on his chest, her body soft and small
in his arms. She mumbled and smiled and slept, her breath playing
against his neck like waves over the sand. He held her close and the
pain dug through him.

Valien had bedded women during
his long years of exile. He had found comfort with outcasts,
wanderers, and urchins, women who came and left his life during the
long years on the road. During his darkest hours, when the rye would
not dull his pain, he had found comfort in brothels, and those
memories still throbbed inside him like old scars. But he had not
loved a woman until Kaelyn. He had not slept with one in his arms
since Marilion.

He kissed her head, and his
throat constricted, and he was afraid.

Love
weakens us,
he thought.
I
cannot lose you, Kaelyn. Tomorrow we fly to war. Tomorrow I will be
afraid for Requiem... bust mostly for you. Mostly for you.

Only a beam of moonlight lit
their bed. Kaelyn mumbled something in her sleep, nestled closer,
and smiled softly. Valien lay awake for a long time, holding her
close.

The dawn rose gray and rainy.
As fighters took formation on the beaches, they frowned skyward,
cursed, and muttered of signs. For many days they had lived here in
sunlight and warmth; on the eve of battle, the sky gods raged. Wind
whipped the palms, the waves crashed like watery demons, and the sand
blew.

The
land itself rages today,
Valien thought. He stood on the beach, staring north into the
roiling waters.
Today
the wrath of man and sky will descend upon you, Cadigus.

His fighters stood around him,
standing still in their formations, staring north with hard eyes.
The wind whipped their hair, and the rain stung their faces, yet they
did not flinch. Five thousand fighters marshaled here. Vir Requis
and Tirans stood together; today they were one army.

Valien looked at them one by
one. He wanted to see warriors. He wanted to see howling,
bloodthirsty fighters chanting for victory. He wanted to see a
hammer ready to crush the Legions.

Instead he saw friends.

He saw families.

He saw Kaelyn, the woman he
loved, her hair a banner of gold under the clouds.

We
are not warriors,
he thought.
We
are husbands, wives, brothers, sisters. We are outcasts and we are
dreamers. We are a single light shining through the storm.

He
shifted. He stood upon the sand as a dragon, roared so the island
could hear, and blasted fire upward, a pillar to lead his people.

"Arise!" he howled,
his voice still strangled but loud enough to peal across the beach.
"Arise, dragons of Requiem! Arise, warriors of Tiranor! Today
our hiding ends. Today we fly—to war, to glory, to victory!"

Around him, his fellow dragons
shifted too. Three thousand scaly beasts roared, blew fire, and lit
the storm.

Glory?
he wondered.
Victory?
What did those have to do with war? War was not glorious. War
never ended with victory. They flew to men screaming in the mud,
limbs torn off, bones shattered. They flew to more grieving widows.
To more pain. To more death and nightmares that would forever haunt
them.

Yet Valien was a leader. He was
heir to great rulers who had led Requiem in battle. Roaring upon the
beach, he thought of those who had come before him: the legendary
King Benedictus who had fought the griffins, the noble King Elethor
who had defeated the phoenixes, and the wise Queen Lyana who had
slain demons and raised Requiem from ruin.

I
am no noble, brave leader like they were,
Valien thought, the rain peppering his scales.
I
am too hurt, too haunted, too afraid.

Yet the people needed that
leader now. They needed a king, a hero, a leader of legend. And so
he roared for glory, for victory, for freedom. And so he gave them
the courage he himself lacked.

The Tirans, men and women
without the ancient magic, mounted the dragons. Each fighter wielded
an arquebus, a saber, and a spear. Miya climbed onto Kaelyn's back,
grabbed the horn of her makeshift saddle, and raised her chin. Her
father, the gruff Sila, climbed onto Valien's saddle.

"So," said the
merchant captain, "I've gone from leading a fleet of ships to a
flight of dragons."

Valien grumbled beneath him.
"You could steer your ships, captain. This dragon flies where
he will." He gritted his teeth. "Hold on tight. You
might have sailed through storms, but you've never flown through
one."

With that, he kicked off the
sand, beat his wings, and soared.

Around him, the dragons of
Requiem rose, roaring fire through the rain. The wind whipped them,
but their wings beat powerfully, driving them forward. They soared
through the storm. The waves crashed below. Fire, wind, and water
churned like a primordial world before creation.

They left the island behind.
They left the children, the elders, and the infirm. They flew
through the storm, five thousand souls, a drop against the ocean of
the Legions. The sea rolled beneath them. A haze of darkness lay
ahead.

Valien looked at Kaelyn, who
flew at his side. Their eyes met through the rain. Her scales
glimmered with raindrops, and her eyes were sad yet hopeful and
knowing. He thought of last night, and the memory warmed him.

I
fight for the memory of Requiem. I fight for a legacy of light. But
I also fight for you.

The
storm clouds broke ahead, and a single ray of light fell into the
sea, a glowing column of gold. Valien flew toward it. It would
guide him home.

 
 
TILLA

Rune hung on the chains before
her, welts covering his body, his eyes swollen and his lips bleeding.
He moaned, head lowered. If not for the chains that held up his
arms, running from his wrists to the ceiling, he'd have collapsed.

"Tilla," he whispered
through cracked lips. "Please."

She had not wanted it to come to
this. Why wouldn't he just speak the words? Why wouldn't he join
her, worship the red spiral with her?

"Oh, Rune," she
whispered, punisher in hand. "Why do you do this? You can make
it end. Just say the words..."

He looked up at her, blinking,
his face pale and splashed with blood. And yet he managed to fix her
with a stare, a deep gaze like the one he would give her at home. In
his eyes she saw Cadport again—their youth in the sand and sun and
their home burning. His lips were silent; his eyes did the speaking.
And he was speaking to her of home... and of the woman she used to
be.

"Hurt him some more!"

Shari stood at her side, wearing
her butcher's apron, her voice thick with bloodlust, her eyes alight.
She seemed like a woman in rapture. Her teeth were bared in a
wolf's snarl. Her chest rose and fell as she panted. Rune's blood
stained her clothes.

"Drive your punisher
against him!" the princess commanded, hissing through her teeth.
"Make him scream. Make him worship the Regime."

And Tilla obeyed.

And he screamed.

But he did not obey.

"Just speak the words,
Rune," Tilla whispered. She touched his cheek. "Just hail
the red spiral. And you will join me. And this will end."

He raised his head, spat out
blood, and stared at her.

Silent.

Tilla turned toward her
commander. "He will not join us. I've hurt him more than
anyone's hurt another. This is hopeless."

She prayed that Shari would
listen. She prayed that Shari would abandon this quest of pain.

Just...
just let Rune be our prisoner!
she wanted to cry out.
Let
him stay in this cell, but make his pain end.

Yet Shari only smiled and licked
her lips. "His pain is only beginning," she said. "The
punisher is but a caress compared to what I still plan. It's time,
Tilla. It's time to make him truly suffer. Draw your dagger."