A Dawn of Dragonfire

ADIA



She moved between the wounded, her robes soaked with blood. Her fingers stitched wounds, her eyes shed no more tears, and her heart felt no more pain. Around her the wounded shivered, wept, and screamed; she healed them. The dying lay feverish; she comforted them. The dead lay stinking; she prayed for them. She was a healer, a priestess, and a mother grieving.

Come back to me from your wilderness, Bayrin, she prayed silently as she bandaged a burnt, trembling man. Come back from the darkness, Lyana. I love you, my children.

The man groaned, his face melted away, his hands burned to stumps. If he died, Adia thought, it would be a blessing for him, and yet she fought for him, gave him the nectar of silverweed to dull his pain, and she refused to surrender his life. He was somebody's son, and Adia too had a son. What if Bayrin returned to her like this, burned into red, twisted flesh and pain? She moved to a young girl, her legs shattered, her hand severed, and she prayed for her, bandaged her, set her bones as best she could. What if Lyana returned to her broken and bleeding too?

Stars, please. I already lost one of my children. I already lost my sweet Noela. Don't let me lose Bayrin and Lyana too.

Her worry seemed too great for Adia to bear, and yet she bore it. She was High Priestess of Requiem. All these bleeding, broken, burnt souls were her children too. They lay in rows upon the floor, dozens of them filling the armory. The swords and shields were gone from this place, taken to battle; the wounded were returned. Every few moments they were carried in: men whose legs ended with stumps, men with entrails spilling from sliced bellies, men burnt and cut, men crying for wives and mothers. In battle they were brave warriors, heroes of Requiem. Here in her chamber, they were sons and husbands, afraid, the terror of battle too real.

"Mother Adia… Mo…" A wounded man reached out to her. Skin hung from his hands, the flesh of his fingers blackened, falling to show the bone. "Mother, a prayer, please…"

She turned to him, placed her hand on his forehead, and prayed for him. She prayed to the stars to comfort him, to heal him or lead him peacefully to the halls of afterlife. And yet Adia did not know if starlight could reach these tunnels. All her life, she had prayed in temples between columns and birches, watching the sky. Now that sky burned, and here they hid, in darkness and pain. The world has become fire and shadow, and all starlight is washed away.

But still she prayed. Still she believed, forced herself to. If her stars had abandoned her, what purpose did her life hold? So she prayed for this burnt man, kissed his bloodied forehead, and bandaged his wounds. She gave him the nectar of silverweed, until he slept, feverish and dying.

"As the leaves fall upon our marble tiles," she whispered, lips sticky with blood, "as the breeze rustles the birches beyond our columns, as the sun gilds the mountains above our halls—know, young child of the woods, you are home, you are home." She held him as his breath stilled and his face smoothed. "Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."

She closed his eyes, covered him with his cloak, and stood up. She pulled him to the corner and placed him among the piles of bodies. There he would stink, decay, lie as rotting flesh until they found room to bury the dead. Adia needed men to dig graves underground, or soon the disease of bodies would claim them all. She needed healers to help her. She needed her husband by her side, and she needed her children back, and she needed this war and death to end. But all she had were her hands that could stitch a wound and hold a dying man, her bandages and nectar, and whatever faith still remained in her heart. And she used them all as the blood flowed, the stench of bodies wafted, and soldiers kept dragging new death into her chamber.

Stay safe, Bayrin and Lyana. Stay alive. Return to me.

She did not know how many hours or days passed as she worked, healing and praying. She did not know night from day. When her husband appeared at the doorway, armor splashed in blood and eyes dark, her fingers were sore, her eyes stinging, her head light. She walked to him, embraced him, and kissed his bristly cheek.

"Adia," Deramon said to her, voice deep as these tunnels, rough as his hands and hair and body. "You need sleep. You need food and drink. Come, we will rest. Sister Caela will take over."

The young healer stood by his side, a girl no older than Lyana, her hair braided tight behind her head, her eyes haunted but strong. She held bandages, towels, and vials of herbs and silverweed.

Adia shook her head. "Sister Caela is too young. She is only a healer in training. She… come, sister. Work with me. Help me."

A man wept at her left, crying for his mother. His hands clutched a wound on his stomach; it gaped open, glistening and red, gutting him.

"I want to go home," he whispered, lips pale, eyes deathly. "Please. Please, I want to go home."

Adia realized that he was just a boy, younger than her own children, and she turned to him, to heal him, to pray for him, but Deramon held her fast.

"Let Sister Caela tend to him," he said, voice low, touched by a softness Adia rarely heard in him.

He held Adia's arm, gently but firmly. His hands were bloody and rough, and Adia wanted to break free, but she was so tired. Her head felt so light. His second hand held the small of her back, keeping her standing.

Sister Caela moved forward, lips tight, and knelt by the dying man. With sure fingers, she uncorked her vials, then poured silverweed nectar into the man's mouth.

"Sister," he whispered, shaking now. "Hold me. Hold me as I leave."

The young woman held the dying man, praying for him, until he lay still in her arms. Adia watched, eyes moist, and she shed tears, all those tears she had not cried for hours, maybe days. Her body shook with them.

"Come, my love," Deramon said softly. "You've not slept in three days. Sister Caela will tend to these men for a few hours."

They left the armory, this place of death and blood and screams. They walked down a tunnel, moving between soldiers who ran and survivors who huddled and prayed. Darkness, stench, and whispers of fear swirled around them. Adia's head spun. Three days. Had it truly been that long? Only several lamps lined the tunnels, casting shadows like dark phoenixes. From above came hammering and cries of battle.

"How are the defenses?" she asked.

Deramon clenched his jaw. "Holding. Barely. The Tirans broke through one blockade—the entrance at the temple. Many died. We raised more boulders and are holding them back. For now." He looked at her. "We will not hold out for long, Adia. But we will hold out for the night."

She realized that Deramon too had not slept for three days. His face was haggard. New lines creased his face, and more white streaked his red beard. His clothes and armor were covered in dust and blood.

"You look like you've been to the Abyss and back," Adia said. She shivered, realizing the grimness of the phrase she'd chosen. No, he had not been to the Abyss, but Lyana now delves into that place. Our daughter. Our sweet, brave light.

Deramon seemed to read her thoughts. He held her hand tight.

"I trust Lyana," he said, voice a low growl. "She is the finest swordswoman I know. She is wise and strong and fast. If anyone can survive down there, it's our girl. She'll return to us with the Starlit Demon. I promise you."

Adia looked at him, and she wanted to believe, but she saw the fear in his eyes. She knew that he himself did not believe those words.

Lyana will die, she thought. We will die. Requiem will fall. But if we are doomed, we will go down fighting, and we will not give up until death's grasp pulls us to the stars. Does my Noela wait for me there?

Survivors covered every corner of these tunnels, sleeping on the floors, standing against the walls, huddling into nooks. Adia made her way between them, until she entered the wine cellar which had become their war room. She and Deramon stepped in, and the chamber seemed so bare to her. This was Requiem's new center of power, but where was their king? He was gone into darkness. Where was their princess? She had flown into the night. Where were Olasar and Orin? Their bodies lay burnt in the inferno of the world.

Who will lead us now? Adia thought. How could this lost, hunted people survive underground with no father or mother? She would be that mother, she knew. She was a priestess, a leader, a healer. Let me lead and heal as best I can until my king returns.

Deramon moved about the room and found them mugs of wine, old cheese, and bread, but Adia could not eat nor drink. She huddled on the floor by a casket, pulled her knees to her chest, and wept.

"My love," Deramon whispered. He sat by her, wrapped his arms around her, and held her. She trembled against him. He was all cold steel and rough flesh; he seemed so strong to her, forever her lord and soldier.

"I'm so scared," she whispered to him. "I'm so scared, Deramon. I'm so scared for Bayrin, for Lyana, for everyone." Her tears claimed her.

He kissed her head and held her close, his arms so wide and strong; when she was younger, Adia used to think he could lift the world with those arms.

Finally she slept, held in his embrace, her cheek against his shoulder. She dreamed of gaping wounds and burning flesh and haunted, bloody eyes.