LACRIMOSA
Dreams whispered in the darkness.
"Lacrimosa!" her mother called, voice a whisper, a flutter. "Come hear the harpists, daughter, come hear the song."
She ran, bare feet upon fallen petals, laughter like ice drops on glass, frozen in time, frozen in memory. Her mother stood before her all in white, smiling, arms open, skin like alabaster and blond hair streaked with white, drowned in light, forever out of reach.
"Mother!" she called, but her voice floated in the air, more ice drops that hung, floated, whispered and echoed.
The harpists walked between the columns of Requiem, bleached, white robes fluttering and silent, eyes a startling blue, peering through her. The birch leaves glided among them, silver, and only their harps seemed real. She could see every leaf of gold upon them, every line and knot in the wood, and the strings cut through her vision, sharper than claw or fang. They played among the columns in their courts, but she could not hear them. Not anymore. Not here, not now.
Darkness.
Darkness and pain.
She gasped, and her fingers clawed the stone ground.
"Mother." A whisper. She tried to clutch the memory, but it fled; it was not real, nothing but a wisp. She could not enter it. She could not find it. Never again, not from this darkness, not from this silence.
"It is a world," she whispered. "We were a world entire, and we are gone. Who will remember us? Who will remember the courts of Requiem when ivy grows over our ruins, and our shattered statues turn smooth under the rain of too many springs? We will be vanished then; we will be lost. Whispers. Then silence. And darkness."
But this darkness was not silent, not hers, not anymore. A rumble sounded in the black, a distant roar of a hundred thousand voices. A crowd chanting, Lacrimosa realized. She had heard crowds in Requiem, clapping people gathered in woodland theaters to see minstrels play. This was different. This crowd roared, clamored, and called for blood. They were angry, they were thrilled, and they were hungry.
She opened her eyes, but saw only shadows. Chains bound her to the floor, and stone walls surrounded her. How long had she been in this prison cell? She had drifted in and out of sleep for days, it seemed. She was in her human form, her dress mere tatters, her head spinning and her arms weak. A bowl of water lay before her, but her arms were bound behind her. She drank like a dog. Outside the stone walls, the crowds roared and thumped feet. Trumpets blew.
A door behind her clanked, and torchlight spilled into the room, blinding her. Lacrimosa squinted and moaned.
"Come on," spoke a deep voice, a voice like death. It sounded familiar, and sent fear through her, but she could not place it. Hands grabbed her, pulled her to her feet, and dragged her to the door. Others walked around her, but she could still not see in the blinding torchlight. She thought they moved down a hall of stone, and the crowd's cheering grew. Soon they entered a towering room. The chanting roared behind bronze doors.
Hands grabbed her arms, and with a clack, somebody removed the shackles from her wrists. She gasped with pain and moved her arms, rubbing them, letting the blood flow through them.
"Turn into the beast," spoke that cold voice, a voice like cracking wood in the heart of winter. Lacrimosa blinked, her eyes adjusting to the light, and then she saw him. She knew him at once.
Molok.
Gaunt and tall, the man looked like a torture device. His armor looked like an iron maiden, spiked and black. His helmet looked like a prisoner's mask, its bars like the bars of a cell. He raised that visor now, revealing a cadaverous face and sunken eyes.
"I know you," Lacrimosa hissed. "I saw you murder five infants in Requiem. I saw you r—"
He backhanded her, knocking her down. Her cheek burned, and her knee banged against the stone floor. She gasped in pain and tears filled her eyes. She glared up at Molok between strands of her hair. He'd always been Dies Irae's foulest pet—a murderer of children, a rapist and torturer. Someday I will kill you, she vowed silently.
"Turn into the beast," he repeated and raised his sword. His blade was black and spiked.
"I—" she hissed, and he kicked her. His boot drove into her stomach. She gasped and new tears filled her eyes.
"Turn into the beast."
Tears on her cheeks, pain saturating her, she shifted. Scales covered her, a tail and wings grew from her, and soon she crouched in the chamber, a dragon, smoke leaving her nostrils. Molok seemed so small now, a fraction of her size, and she wanted to tear her fangs into him. But that would mean death for her. That would mean she'd never see Benedictus, Kyrie, and her daughters again.
Molok collared her, then pulled her on a chain toward the bronze doors. When the doors opened, the cheering hit Lacrimosa so heavily, her head spun. Molok dragged her into a sandy arena. Tens of thousands of people cheered around her. It was an amphitheater, Lacrimosa realized, but not like the small theaters in Requiem where her kind would gather to hear minstrels or storytellers among the trees. This was a colossus, a great ring of stone. How many of Osanna's sons and daughters howled and jeered her? There were fifty thousand at least, maybe twice as many, an army of people hating her. They pelted her with rotten vegetables and cursed her. The colors and sound swirled around her, deafening, overwhelming.
Molok attached her chain to a metal post in the center of the ring. He backed away, leaving her in the middle of the amphitheater, alone, the crowd cheering. When Lacrimosa looked up, squinting in the sunlight, she saw a gilded boxed seat high upon the stone tiers. Purple curtains draped it, and griffin statues guarded its flanks. Dies Irae sat there upon a throne of ivory and jewels, wearing samite and gemstones, a crown atop his head. He gazed down at her, face blank.
What's the point of this show? Lacrimosa wondered, glaring up at Dies Irae. Why does he chain me here? Just so Confutatis can see me, mock me, throw their rotten vegetables at me? She growled, smoke leaving her nostrils, incurring wild cries from the crowd. Why does he do this?
Dies Irae rose from his seat. He raised his arms, and the crowd fell silent. For long moments, Dies Irae passed his gaze over the crowd, as if he would stare at every man, woman, and child. The sudden silence was eerie to Lacrimosa; silence before a storm. Nobody in the crowd so much as whispered. Lacrimosa could hear distant birds chirp. Finally Dies Irae spoke.
"Behold our enemy," he called out, voice loud in the silence. "Behold the beast, the weredragon. These are the creatures that threaten your children."
The crowd hissed and glared. Dies Irae spoke louder.
"These weredragons bring evil into our city. When plagues strike, it is because the weredragons poisoned our wells. When fires burn our homes, weredragon breath kindled them."
The crowd jeered so loudly now, the amphitheater seemed to shake. Dies Irae shouted to be heard.
"When rain does not fall, and crops die, it is because weredragons moved the clouds with their wings. When earthquakes tremble, it is weredragons shaking the earth. When there is not enough bread, or fruit, or milk, it is because the weredragons stole them."
The crowed howled. Several men tried to run down the tiers, into the arena, and attack Lacrimosa. The guards held them back, but the guards' eyes too burned with hatred.
Lacrimosa understood. This city was no heaven of splendor and riches; only its palaces were, only the courts of Dies Irae. The rest of Confutatis was a hive of poverty, a simmering pool of fear and misery.
"And we're the scapegoats," Lacrimosa whispered, tears in her eyes. This was how Dies Irae raised his armies, earned their loyalty, convinced them to burn Requiem, to murder babes in the cradle.
Lacrimosa glared at Dies Irae. She called out, her voice barely heard over the crowd, but she knew Dies Irae would hear. "Is this because of your father?" she cried. "Is this because he hated you for lacking the magic of Requiem, because he chose Benedictus to be his heir? Dies Irae! You have betrayed your home, you will...."
Her voice trailed off.
Bronze doors were opening behind her, and she heard grunting.
Three beasts burst into the arena.
At first she thought they were bulls. They had shaggy bodies, bull horns, and golden rings in their noses. But these were no ordinary bulls; instead of hooves, they had clawed feet, and fangs grew from their mouths. Smoke and fire left their nostrils.
They charged toward her.
Lacrimosa's heart leaped. She tried to escape, but the chain ran from her collar to the metal post, barely fifty feet long. She blew fire toward the charging bulls, and they scattered, howling.
The crowd cheered.
One bull skirted the flames and nearly gored her. Lacrimosa lashed her tail, hit it, and knocked it ten feet back. Another bull charged toward her other side. Lacrimosa pulled back, nearly choking as the chain tugged her collar. She blew more fire, hitting the bull in the face. It howled and fell, burning.
The third bull charged. Lacrimosa moved aside as best she could, the chain restricting her movements, and the bull's horns grazed her leg. Her blood flowed.
Lacrimosa howled in pain. She kicked the bull, sending it flying. The beast crashed into two guards, knocking them down, and the crowd cheered louder than ever.
The wounded bulls struggled to their feet and surrounded her. They growled, blew smoke from their nostrils, and clawed the earth. They realized her strength now, and they began pacing around her, judging her with narrowed eyes, waiting for an opening to attack.
Lacrimosa wanted to weep. She wanted to die. She missed her husband and daughter so badly. But she could allow no despair to overcome her. She had to live for her family. She kept lashing her tail, glaring at the bulls, keeping them back. If one seemed ready to charge, she blew fire until it retreated. Still they walked in circles around her.
"I love you, Benedictus," Lacrimosa whispered when the bulls charged together. She blew fire, kicked, and screamed. Pain and flames covered her world.
GLORIAE
She walked through the dungeon, hand on Per Ignem's hilt. She wore her gilded breastplate and helmet. Her boots clanked against the stone floor, tipped with steel, and a dagger hung at her side. Gloriae wondered why she brought arms and armor here today. The beast was chained. The beast was hurt. It could not harm Gloriae, and yet she felt naked without her armor, vulnerable, only a girl, a princess with soft cheeks and golden hair.
But I am a lady of steel, she thought, gloved hand tightening around her sword's hilt. This blade is steel, and so is my heart, and so is my resolve, and so is the punishment I deal to those who hurt me.
Soon she reached the doorway. The guards recognized her, blanched, and slammed their fists against their hearts. Gloriae did not bother returning the salute.
"Open the door," she said. The guards glanced at one another, and Gloriae drew her sword. "Do as I say, or I'll have you flayed and hung upon the palace walls."
They obeyed. Gloriae grabbed a torch from the wall and stepped into the chamber, sword drawn. She blinked as light and shadows swirled, and then she saw the beast.
Lacrimosa lay on the floor. She was in human form today, and Gloriae's breath died. She had come here expecting a reptile, a monster. On the floor lay a beautiful woman. Lacrimosa was slender, and her hair shone like moonlight, a blond so pale it was almost white. She seemed ageless to Gloriae. Lacrimosa was not young like her; when those lavender eyes looked up, Gloriae saw the wisdom of age in them. And yet no lines marred Lacrimosa's face, and her beauty seemed eternal, the beauty of a flower coated in frost.
Gloriae took a step back, raising the torch. She wanted to hate Lacrimosa, but how could she hate a creature that took such a delicate, beautiful form? It was a spell, Gloriae told herself; an illusion to hide lurking evil.
"Hello, Gloriae," Lacrimosa said, and tears filled her eyes. She rose to her feet.
Rage flared in Gloriae, nearly blinding her. She reminded herself why she had come here. She had wanted to see the creature that had murdered her mother... and to hurt it. She walked toward Lacrimosa, sword raised, and was surprised to find tears in her own eyes. She let her anger sear them away.
"You murdered my mother," Gloriae said, voice little more than a whisper.
Lacrimosa wept. Her slender body trembled and she shook her head. "Gloriae... my beloved. Is that what they told you?" Lacrimosa reached out toward her. "Gloriae, I am your mother."
"You lie!" Gloriae screamed.
Lacrimosa shook her head, tears streaming down to wet her dress. "I gave birth to you in the courts of Requiem. You are Vir Requis, child. You're one of us. I don't know who your father is, whether he is Benedictus or Dies Irae. But I know that I gave birth to you, that I nursed you, that I raised you for three years before Dies Irae took you."
Gloriae trembled. No... no! It can't be. Images slammed against her. She saw herself as a toddler among marble columns, heard harps, saw light and leaves and—
"Liar!" Gloriae screamed, shaking her head so wildly, that her hair covered her eyes. She trembled. "No. No, beast. I am not one of you." She snarled. "You are cursed, you are evil and you trick and you lie and you kill. You murdered my mother. You try to enchant me now. I see those images you place in my head. I laugh at them. You think you can fool me, lizard?" She raised her sword, laughing and crying and shouting. "You will die, Lacrimosa. You will die like the vermin that you are. My father will torture you. He will break you until you pray for death. And then, when that time comes, I will be the one who kills you, who lands this sword upon you."
Lacrimosa reached out toward her, eyes entreating. "Daughter, Gloriae—"
"Do not speak my name. All your words are spells. I killed a Vir Requis child when I was only six. I killed three more when I was eight. Do you think I don't know your kind? That I don't know your evil and your magic?"
"Listen to me, please!" Sobs racked Lacrimosa's body. "They have hurt you, lied to you, but I love you. I love you, daughter. You can shift too. You can become a dragon like us. I know it, you—"
"Silence!"
"I will not be silent. You must know the truth, Gloriae. Dies Irae never taught you your magic. He is Vir Requis too, but he was born without the gift. You have it! I know you do. It's deep within you, hidden, repressed. You are scared and ashamed of it. They taught you to hate it, to hide it. But the light of Requiem glows within you. It's buried but still lives. Try it, Gloriae! Shift here in this chamber. Look into your soul, find your dragon light, and you can—"
Gloriae shoved Lacrimosa, and she fell, weeping, finally ceasing to speak. Gloriae stared down at her. Her heart thrashed, her fingers trembled, and she longed to bring Per Ignem down upon this creature. "You will not cast your curse upon me," she said, voice cold. "You will beg me for death before I grant it."
With that, Gloriae spun and left the chamber. She slammed the door behind her.
She marched down the hallway, up onto the surface of the world, and to the stables. She mounted Aquila and flew to the Palace Flammis, this jewel of marble and gold that rose upon the highest hill in the Marble City of Confutatis. After tethering Aquila, she marched across the gardens and into the palace. She marched down hallways past lords and ladies, suits of burnished armor, and scuttling servants. The people she passed saluted her, fear in their eyes. Gloriae did not need a mirror to know that her cheeks were flushed, her eyes enraged, her lips tightened into a cruel line. She carried Per Ignem drawn, prepared to slay anyone who spoke to her. None did.
She reached her chamber, stepped in, and closed the door behind her. Finally she allowed herself to close her eyes, lean against a wall, and take a deep breath.
"My lady?" came a voice, and Gloriae opened her eyes to see May, her handmaiden. The girl was her age, and had been with her since childhood. Her hair was long and auburn, her skin pale, her brown eyes soft with worry. "My lady, are you all right?"
Gloriae sheathed her sword. "Come to me, May."
Her handmaiden stepped forward, and Gloriae embraced the girl, leaned her head against her shoulder, and closed her eyes. "When will the pain leave, May?" she whispered.
May caressed her hair, untangling a knot in its curls. "Shall I draw you a bath? Bring you wine or food, my lady?"
Gloriae shook her head, opened her eyes, and looked at May. The girl smiled at her, and that smile soothed Gloriae. There was still some loyalty in the world, some goodness. "May, you've always been my friend. You always will be. No matter what. No matter what you may ever learn about me, promise that you'll remain mine."
"Of course, my lady."
Gloriae nodded. "Leave me."
May curtsied and left the chamber, dress rustling. When she was gone, Gloriae surveyed her room. This was not the room of a princess. She had no lap dogs, no dolls, no jeweled mirrors and gowns. Swords hung over Gloriae's fireplace, and daggers and crossbows lay upon her tables. Instead of bottles of perfumes, bottles of ilbane lined her shelves. Instead of gowns, suits of armor filled her room. She had dedicated her life to this war, to hunting weredragons. That was all she knew, all she'd ever lived for.
She sat on her bed, head spinning. She thought back to Lacrimosa's words. I love you, daughter. You can shift too. You can become a dragon like us.
Gloriae snorted. Now that she was back home, those words seemed less frightening, and more ridiculous. Lacrimosa must have been desperate. Her lies were feeble. Turn into a dragon? Her, the greatest hunter of weredragons?
Gloriae closed her eyes. "I'll prove you wrong, beast. Want me to try it?" She snorted again. "Fine." She would prove the weredragon a liar.
With a deep breath, Gloriae tried to imagine herself as a dragon. She pictured herself with scales golden like her hair, like the golden scales of Father's boots. She imagined herself with glinting claws, fangs, leathery wings. In her mind, she flapped her wings, flying over mountains and forests, tail swishing. Wind streamed around her. Cold air filled her nostrils. She roared, and fire left her maw. She could feel it, hot and wonderful, stinging her lips. The light of the Draco constellation filled her eyes, and she could hear the harps of Requiem calling, see the glint of her towers and—
Stop.
Stop it.
Gloriae snarled and tried to open her eyes, but could not. The light tugged at her. "No!" she cried.
Clouds and winds flowed across her. She could see her mother flying ahead, silvery, glinting in the sunlight. She could see her sister, a red dragon flowing on air. She could see her father, a black dragon, and—
Gloriae was weeping now. "No, no," she pleaded. She opened her eyes... and screamed.
Scales covered her arms, small and golden. Claws were growing from her fingertips. She wanted to stop it. She wanted to resist. But she also needed this, she craved it, loved it. She wanted to fly, to roar, to breathe fire. It claimed her, better than wine, better than anything. The magic flowed through her, and she both fought and welcomed it.
With a gush, wings sprouted from her back. She felt a tail beneath her, and she was huge, no longer a slim girl, but a great creature that filled her chamber. Her tail crashed against her table, knocking over the arrows, crossbows, and daggers. Her limbs were so long now, they knocked over her wardrobe. Her head hit the ceiling, no longer the head of a girl. She could see herself in a fallen, burnished breastplate. Her head was a dragon's head, golden, its eyes green as emeralds.
Gloriae froze.
She wanted to roar. She wanted to flee. But no. She must remain silent. She must alert no one. Had anyone heard her tables falling over? Would anyone burst into this room, see her like this, see the monster she'd become?
Silence, Gloriae, she told herself. Breathe. Think. Calm yourself. Do not panic.
She shut her eyes, forced deep breaths, and imagined herself as a girl again. She forced the image of her human form into her mind. A girl, slender but strong, of golden locks, of green eyes, of marble skin. She took deep breaths and opened her eyes.
Once more she was a girl.
"Was it all a dream?" she whispered. No. She could see claw marks on the floor, and her room was a mess. Gloriae trembled. Cold sweat drenched her, soaking the shirt under her breastplate. She had never known such terror, not in all her battles.
A thought struck her. She tugged open a drawer and grabbed a leather pouch. Inside were crumbled ilbane leaves. Fingers shaking, Gloriae reached into the pouch and touched the leaves. She yelped, dropped the pouch, and pulled back her hand. She stared at her fingers. They were red and blazed as if she'd touched open flame.
Sun God... I'm infected.
Gloriae clutched her head. She understood what had happened. Lacrimosa had given her the disease, the curse. Gloriae now carried that evil within her.
She too had become a weredragon.
Gloriae began to weep. She curled up on her bed, hugged her knees, and sobbed. She had never cried so much in her life. She was a freak now, diseased and monstrous. How would she continue? How could she face her father again? How would she ever get married, have children, raise a family? Would her children inherit this curse? She wanted to scream, to call for help, but dared not.
A knock sounded on the door. "My lady?" came May's voice. "My lady, are you well?"
"Leave me!" Gloriae cried. She rose to her feet, frantic, hair wild. I must hide this mess, she thought. Nobody must know. Nobody must ever know.
Gloriae nodded. Yes, yes. She would keep it secret. She would tell nobody. How would they know? If she never shifted again, they could not. It was simple.
She allowed herself a wild, weepy smile. "I can hide this."
She placed a rug over the claw marks on the floor, righted her furniture, and arranged everything as it had been. Perfect. Finally she spent a few moments fixing herself. She removed her sweaty clothes and brushed her hair. She pulled on leggings, a cotton shirt, a leather belt, tall boots—her clothes of battle. She owned no gowns or dresses. She had never been much of a girl, she thought, but now she wanted to be nothing more.
"May!" she called.
Her handmaiden stepped into the chamber, and Gloriae pulled her into an embrace.
"Hold me," she whispered, trembling. "Tell me it'll be all right. Please." Tears filled her eyes.
They sat on the divan, and May held her and smoothed her hair, and Gloriae slept in her arms.
She woke up to discover that night had fallen. May slept against her, her arms around her. Gloriae gazed upon the girl, her best friend since childhood, her only friend. I won't let you down, May, she thought. I won't let evil fill this world. You're my friend. You're pure and good. How can I let you live in a world so dangerous, so cruel?
Gloriae knew what to do. She had known for years perhaps, but never dared. Tonight she would dare.
Moving slowly, she wriggled out of May's embrace and placed a blanket upon the girl. Eyes narrowed, she silently put on her armor: her breastplate of steel, molded to the curve of her body, gilded and jeweled; her helmet, its visor a golden mask of her face; her greaves and vambraces, their steel bright. Finally she donned Per Ignem, lifted her shield, strapped her crossbow to her side, and left her chamber.
She found her father in his hall. He sat upon the Ivory Throne, talking to the gaunt Lord Molok. When Gloriae entered the hall and walked across it, the two men turned to face her. Molok wore no helmet today, and she could see his ashen face, sunken eyes, and slit of a mouth. Her father was frowning.
"Father," Gloriae said when she reached his throne. She slammed her fist against her breastplate.
He nodded. "Daughter."
"Take me to the Well of Night."
Dies Irae rose to his feet, his face reddened, and for a moment Gloriae thought that he would strike her. But he only stared at her, eyes harder than his fists. "No."
Gloriae took a step closer to him. She snarled. "I saw Lacrimosa, Father. I spoke to the beast. They are fully evil creatures, more than I knew. They die this night. No more ilbane. No more griffins. No more games. We release the nightshades. We wipe them out."
Dies Irae bared his teeth, and his eyes looked ready to gore her. He grabbed her arm, fingers digging into her flesh. He leaned forward and whispered through clenched teeth. "You disobeyed me, Gloriae. You do not know what you ask."
"I do, Father. I know very well. I know their power is greater than—"
"You have not seen the nightshades," Dies Irae said, grinding his teeth. His fingers sent such pain through Gloriae, that she wanted to cry out, but held her voice. "I will show you. You think weredragons are evil? You think they are strong? You haven't seen these creatures."
He began to drag her across the hall. She struggled to free herself from his grip, but could not. He dragged her through the doorway, down stairs, and along more halls. They walked for a long time. They moved down more stairwells, and down dark corridors, and finally into dungeons and tunnels.
"You've never seen the darkness that lies beneath this city," Dies Irae said, still clutching her arm, still dragging her. "I raised you in light and beauty, surrounded with gold and jewels and goodness. You haven't seen what lurks beneath this place, far from the light of the Sun God."
Gloriae gazed around, her father's digging fingers almost forgotten. She'd heard whispers of dungeons beneath Flammis Palace, but never seen them. The walls were roughly hewn, the floor raw stone, the ceiling dripping mold. It seemed that they traveled for leagues. The air was cold and clammy, the ground slippery. They plunged deeper and deeper underground, until Gloriae thought they would reach the end of the world.
Finally a tunnel lead into a chamber where a hundred soldiers stood. They wore plate armor and carried battle axes. They slammed fists against breastplates, saluting their lords.
"Soldiers, here underground?" Gloriae asked. "Father, wha—"
"They are guards, Gloriae," he said. "They guard the terror that dwells behind these doors." He gestured at towering doors set into the stone wall.
Gloriae looked at those doors and shivered. They were made of iron. Golden skulls were embedded into them, twice the size of men's skulls, soft light in their eye sockets. The skulls seemed to watch her, and Gloriae knew; the nightshades dwelled behind these doors.
She shivered. Nightshades. In her childhood, she would fear them, see them in shadows under her bed, dream nightmares of them.
"These creatures cannot be tamed like griffins," Dies Irae said. "They cannot be killed like weredragons. And you want to wake them?"
Gloriae stared at that door. She thought back to her secret, her shame. I'm infested with the weredragon curse. I have the evil within me. I must make this land pure. For May. For all the other innocents. I cannot let anyone else catch their disease.
"I want to see them."
Dies Irae nodded to the guards, and several grabbed chains that hung from the doors. They began to pull, and the doors creaked open, inch by inch. Lights flickered in the eye sockets of the doors' skulls.
Cold wind blew from beyond, sneaking under Gloriae's armor, and she shivered. She saw only blackness. When the doors were open, Dies Irae dragged her through the doorway, into the cold and darkness.
She found herself in a chamber lined with torches. It was a great chamber, round and large as the amphitheater where Lacrimosa fought. It looked like a cave, its walls and floor rough, its ceiling hidden in shadows. In the center, Gloriae saw the well. She had always imagined a normal well, maybe three feet wide. This well was a hundred feet wide—more a pool than a well, Gloriae thought—and not built of bricks, but carved of solid stone. Mist hovered over it.
"Step up to the well, child," Dies Irae said, finally releasing her. "Gaze into the abyss."
Suddenly Gloriae was fearful. Suddenly she wanted to flee back to her chambers, back to May. But she would not show her father any weakness. He had beaten this strength into her as a blacksmith beats strength into steel. She was a maiden of steel. She would face this. Whatever lay in the abyss, she would stare it down.
She walked forward, knelt over the well, and gazed into the darkness.
At first she saw nothing but black smoke, inky and swirling. She wanted to laugh. Had she been so frightened of nothing but this—smoke and shadows? She was about to turn away, but could not. The darkness seemed... endless, of a size unimaginable to her. Gloriae clutched the well's rim, fingers pushing against the stone. She thought that she gazed into the night sky. Was she gazing below into the earth, or above into the stars? This abyss had the same depth, endless, leading into realms unknown and light that did not shine. This was the opposite of light. Not darkness, no. Darkness was merely the lack of light. This... this was its antithesis, and it was greater, deeper, tugging at her soul.
"What evil is this?" she whispered. It seemed to pull her soul downward, out of her body, so that her consciousness ballooned and filled the well like spreading ink. All her life, she had seen the world from the confines of her skull. Such a small enclosure. Now she knew that the world was larger, infinitely so, not only of three dimensions, but of endless layers and eternal time. The enormity made her grimace, fall to her knees, and cry.
Then she saw them.
They coiled in the darkness—maybe yards away, maybe millions of leagues away. They were long, murky black, not made of solid matter, but of darkness and smoke and lightning. Their eyes shone like stars, their teeth dripped smoke, and they stared at her, and spoke to her, and filled her mind and body, and enough, enough, please— Please, Father, enough! I cannot bear them. I cannot stand them inside me, cannot stand the size, the darkness, the dimensions, I want to leap into the abyss, I want to become one of them, to expand and fill the universe, and... God... Sun God, please, if you have power here, save me, I—
Hands clutched her. Someone pulled her back.
"Where... where am I?" she mumbled. She was lying on a rough stone floor. She gazed up and saw a man there, a man with a face like a griffin, his nose hooked like a beak, his skin golden, his hair slicked back. Who was he? He'd been her father once, a thousand lifetimes ago, but what did that mean?
"Do you understand, Gloriae? Do you understand why we must never release them?"
Gloriae blinked. "I... the world is so large, Father. It is larger than this place, I... we can fill it. We can see it!" Tears streamed down her cheeks. "It's horrible, please, save me, make it stop, make them stop pulling me." She curled up and wept.
Dies Irae pulled her to her feet. He slapped her face. The pain shot through her, and suddenly she felt herself... sucked up, pulled back, drawn inside her body. Her soul slammed into her skull, and she wobbled. It felt like smoke retreating back into a jar.
"I..." She blinked, looked around, and saw that they no longer stood in the chamber of the nightshades. They were back in the room with the guards. She had not even noticed herself returning to this place.
"Come, daughter, we return to the air and light and music of the world."
She followed him in a daze, climbing endless stairs, and neither spoke. It was not until she stood in the gardens of the palace, breathing the sweet night air, watching lords and ladies travel paths between cypresses, that Gloriae shook her head and blew out her breath. She had returned to herself; the nightshades were gone from her mind.
"They cannot be tamed," Dies Irae said, and Gloriae started, for she hadn't realized that he still stood by her. "And you cannot release them. Only the one who sits upon Osanna's throne can open the Well of Night, and I will not. I will not release the terror that lurks there. One day you will sit upon the Ivory Throne, daughter. You will have the power to guard or release these creatures. When that day comes, remember this night. Remember what you saw there. Remember to keep it forever sealed."
Gloriae nodded. "The abyss will remain sealed, today and always."
Dies Irae nodded. He left her there in the garden. She spent a long time walking its paths, gazing up at the stars, lost in thought.
BENEDICTUS
Benedictus trudged toward the gates of Confutatis, cloak wrapped around him, two daggers at his belt.
Other travelers covered the roads around him. Benedictus saw pilgrims in robes and sandals; Sun God priests in samite riding white horses; merchants in purple silk riding in carriages; shaggy peddlers riding mules, leading wagons of wares; thin peasants and farmers, their tunics muddy and patched; and many armored soldiers, their shields emblazoned with griffin heads.
Benedictus scowled under his hood. He remembered days years ago, before Dies Irae, when he'd visit Confutatis with his father to meet its wise king. Few soldiers had marched these roads then, and the farmers were not bedraggled, but healthy and bearing wheelbarrows of crops. Monks had worn homespun robes and worshiped the benevolent Earth God, not this vengeful Sun God who cloaked his priests in gold and jewels. Now the priests were wealthy, the soldiers many, the peasants hungry, the Vir Requis dead. Sad days, Benedictus thought, staring at his boots so as not to gaze upon these processions of might and vicious piety. Cruel days.
The sound of hooves came behind him, and Benedictus turned to see a knight on horseback leading twenty marching soldiers. The knight wore plate armor and bore a banner with a red, two-headed griffin upon a yellow field. The peasants on the road leaped into the muddy gutters and knelt. Benedictus stepped to the roadside and kept walking, refusing to cower in the mud.
"You there!" came a voice. "Peasant."
Benedictus stared from inside his hood. The knight reined his courser and stared down upon him. "Into the gutter with you," he said.
Benedictus forced his growl down. He bowed his head. "The road is wide, and you have room to pass. I don't disturb you."
The soldiers clinked in their armor, reaching for their swords. The knight raised an gauntleted fist. "I said into the gutter. I want you kneeling in the mud as I ride by."
This time Benedictus did growl. He wanted to shift. He wanted to turn into a dragon and kill these men. He recognized this knight's banner. A two-headed griffin upon a yellow field—this was the banner of House Crudelis, a banner of foul memories. Ten years ago, Benedictus had flown to aid a burning village in Requiem. When he'd arrived, all the villagers were already dead, their bodies tortured and raped. The griffins and soldiers of Osanna had come, destroyed, and left. Only the banner of Crudelis remained, flapping over a pile of dead Vir Requis children.
"Ride by, Crudelis," Benedictus said from the roadside. He reached into his cloak and grabbed a dagger's hilt. "Ride by and let me be. I don't want trouble."
The soldiers stood at attention, but sneaked glances at one another. Crudelis stared down, silent for a long moment. Then he dismounted, walked toward Benedictus, and reached for his sword.
Benedictus thrust his dagger into the knight's visor, deep into his head, spurting blood.
As the knight fell, the soldiers charged. Benedictus ran into the forest. He dared not shift. If they knew a Vir Requis was here, garrisons would storm this forest. Benedictus ran, his old wounds aching, his fists pumping. The soldiers clanked behind him in their armor.
Benedictus grunted. He might just escape them. He was thirty years older than these soldiers, but their armor slowed them. Just as he began to feel safe, something whizzed by his ear. A quarrel hit a tree ahead. More quarrels flew.
"Great," Benedictus muttered as he ran. "They have crossbows."
One quarrel scratched his shoulder, tearing his cloak and drawing blood. Two more hit a tree before him. Benedictus ran from tree to tree, cursing. He saw a declivity ahead, leaped down, and fell. He rolled over roots and rocks, hit a fallen bole at the bottom, and pushed himself up with a grunt. The soldiers stood above, firing down. One quarrel scratched Benedictus's leg. He ran behind more trees, kicking up mud.
"Damn," he muttered. He was too old for this. His lungs ached. He kept running until he reached a cliff, thirty feet tall and covered with vines.
Benedictus spun around, his back to the cliff, and faced the soldiers. Boulders and brambles rose at his sides. He was trapped.
As the soldiers approached, Benedictus raised his hands.
One of the soldiers had a red griffin inlaid into his helmet. With Crudelis dead, this one seemed to have taken command. He grinned at Benedictus, a wolf's grin.
"Are you surrendering, old man?" the soldier said with a sneer. "You do not surrender to us. We are soldiers of Dies Irae. We take no prisoners." His grin widened and he stepped toward Benedictus.
"I'll have to kill all of you," Benedictus said. "I can't let any escape to call for help. If you do this, you will all die."
The soldiers laughed. Their leader raised his sword.
Benedictus shifted.
He did as he'd promised. A few tried to flee, calling for help. Benedictus crashed through the trees toward them, claws outstretched, and tore them down. They were too far from the road; if anyone heard their cries, they wouldn't know where to look. It only took a few moments. It was like stomping on bugs.
Benedictus shifted back into his human form. The soldiers lay dead around him, armor broken, blood feeding the earth.
As he walked back through the forest, seeking the road, Benedictus lowered his head. He hated killing. What he'd just done lay sour in his belly like rotten meat. He knew these men were no innocents; their leader had murdered many Vir Requis, and even the younger soldiers, those who'd not fought in the war, had been brainwashed into malice, tools of death for Dies Irae. Still Benedictus hated the blood on his hands.
"I will never forgive you for this, brother," he whispered. "I will never forgive you for forcing me to kill, for turning me into this. You have called me a monster. You have made me one."
Soon he found the road, and he kept walking. By evening he stood before the white walls of Confutatis. Lacrimosa and Gloriae waited for him there... and Dies Irae.