AGNUS DEI
"But you must help us!" Agnus Dei demanded, eyes teary. "Please."
Her claws dug into the cave floor, a floor made of gold and diamonds. The cave walls were golden too, and gems sparkled in them, reflecting the fire in Agnus Dei's nostrils. On any other day, Agnus Dei would find this vast, glittering chamber inside Har Zahav a place of beauty and wonder. Today she cared little for beauty; she was ready to blow fire, lash her tail, and topple the golden mountain.
"Won't you help us?" she asked again, smoke leaving her nostrils.
The council of salvanae hovered before her and Kyrie, undulating. Sparks of electricity danced between their teeth. The high priest, Nehushtan, hovered at the head of the council. Six other salvanae, their mustaches long and white, hovered behind him. All their eyes—those large, round eyes like glass orbs—stared at the two Vir Requis.
"Agnus Dei," Kyrie whispered from the side of his mouth, "maybe it's a lost cause. They're peaceful creatures. I'm not sure they can help us fight." He too stood in dragon form, claws upon the golden floor.
Angus Dei looked back at Nehushtan. "Please," she said. "They'll kill my parents. They've killed so many Vir Requis already. Fly with us! Bring your warriors. Their fangs are sharp. Their lightning is hot. Fight with us. Fight Dies Irae."
Nehushtan regarded her silently for long moments. He puffed rings of smoke from his mouth, then spoke in his creaky voice. His words were slow and calm. "We of the land of Salvandos, of the holy Har Zahav mountain, do not concern ourselves with the ways of humans, or of griffinflesh. We are salvanae, the true dragons of ancient times. We concern ourselves only with dragonkind. The way of the dragon is our way, and it is a good way. A way of peace. Of meditation. Of reflection and prayer."
"But we're dragons too," Agnus Dei said, eyes stinging. She bucked and clawed the air. Her tail lashed, hit a wall, and knocked down a shower of gems. The priests winced.
"Agnus D—" Kyrie began, but she ignored him.
"Look at these wings!" Agnus Dei said. "Look at these fangs." She blew fire against the cave ceiling, blackening its gold and incurring more winces. "Look at these flames. These are dragon flames. I am a dragon maiden. And my way is the way of honor. Of helping friends. Of fighting for life and goodness." Tears rolled down her cheeks. "We are dragons too, so fly with us. Shoot your lightning with our fire."
Nehushtan raised his tufted white eyebrows. "But you have human forms. How could you be dragons? We have seen you walking upon two legs."
As Agnus Dei fumed, Kyrie touched her shoulder and answered for her. "The smoke rings you blow also change form. They sometimes looks like dragons, sometimes like men, sometimes like, well... nothing at all. But it's always the same substance. Same with us Vir Requis."
Nehushtan blinked, blew smoke rings, and watched them take the shape of coiling dragons. He thought for a long time, moving his eyes from Agnus Dei to Kyrie. The other priests did the same. Finally Nehushtan spoke again.
"You have spoken well, Kyrie Eleison of Requiem, so I will offer you this. Beyond Har Zahav, and the mists of Arafel Canyons, rise the Stone Rings. There do young dragons prove their worth. There you too must fly. If you survive the Stone Rings, you'll have proven yourselves worthy dragons, that your blood and soul shine under the Draco stars. We will then fly with you."
"And if we fail?" Agnus Dei asked.
Nehushtan blinked sadly. "If you fail... you will die."
Agnus Dei growled. "Let's go."
The salvanae took flight, bodies snaking into a tunnel. Agnus Dei followed, growling. Kyrie flew behind her. The tunnel was just wide enough for their dragon forms, and it led them past gems, subterranean waterfalls, caverns of golden stalactites and stalagmites, and finally out a cave onto the mountainside. They flew into the cold air, following the salvanae. Soon the mountain of Har Zahav was far behind, a golden triangle, and then it was only a glint in the distance. Clouds streamed around Agnus Dei, cold against her face, filling her mouth and nostrils and eyes. She blew fire and roared. Whatever these salvanae had in store, she would face it. She would overcome.
"For you, Mother," she whispered, and her eyes stung with tears. "For you, Father. I love you so much."
She sniffed, shook her head to clear her tears, and glanced at Kyrie. I hope he didn't see me cry. He is a pup, and I am a creature of fire, and he must never see my weakness. If he saw, however, Kyrie had the grace—and good sense—to pretend he hadn't.
"Pup," she said, "what do you reckon these salvanae have planned for us?"
Kyrie looked at her, fangs bared. He looked ready to fight an army. The salvanae flew far ahead, too far to hear.
"A test of courage," he said. "A test of strength. A rite of passage for salvana warriors. Whatever this challenge is, we're going to beat it. I'm a good flier. You're not bad, either."
She bristled and blew flames. "I can beat you at any challenge they give, pup. But this time we're not competing against each other. We're going to prove that we Vir Requis have just as much strength, speed, and spirit as they do."
She tried not to think of Mother in captivity, or of Father flying into battle. Today she would think only of proving her worth, of flying to save them.
They flew for hours, following the salvanae who snaked ahead. They flew over canyons of stone, and over forests of pines, and over grassy fields and rushing rivers. Finally they reached a land of towering stone columns, each column a league high, carved into the shape of great faces. Eyes the size of palaces glared at them, and mouths larger than cathedrals gaped in silent screams. The columns—and the faces carved into them—seemed ancient. They were smooth and mossy. It seemed that centuries of rain and wind had pummeled them into weary, grotesque figures. The salvanae flew between the columns, seeming as small as dragonflies around men.
"What is this place?" Agnus Dei asked Kyrie. "Those faces are strange."
Kyrie nodded. "Feels like they're staring at you." He flew before one face's eye. It was larger than him. They couldn't even see the ground; the columns disappeared into darkness leagues below.
The salvanae led them toward an empty space of mist and shadows. Though it had been day only minutes before, night cloaked this place. Agnus Dei saw stars above, and three purple moons. They were strange stars, and strange moons, things of a different sky, too close, too large, and Agnus Dei had to look away. She felt like that sky could swallow her.
"Look!" Kyrie said. Agnus Dei followed his stare and gasped. Ahead in darkness, distant but growing larger as they flew, hovered three stone rings. No columns held them; they floated on air. One ring was large, a dozen feet wide; the next was half the size, and the third half again. When Agnus Dei flew closer, she saw that blades filled the rings, rusty and bloodied.
"What are those?" she asked and hissed. Smoke rose between her teeth.
"I don't know," Kyrie said, "but look below them."
Agnus Dei looked and growled. Jagged rock and metal rose below the floating rings, and upon them lay the skeletons of a hundred salvanae. Some bones were ancient, bleached white like dragon teeth. Others were newer and bloodstained. Some bones looked fresh; bits of skin and scales covered them, rotting in the mist.
"What is this place?" Agnus Dei demanded of the salvanae. They hovered ahead, bodies coiling beneath them, eyes blinking at her. "Answer me! What graveyard have you brought us to?"
Nehushtan regarded her. After a long silence, he spoke. "This is our gauntlet. This is the blood of dragons. Here we prove our worth, and here you will prove you are true dragons, worthy of the name, worthy of your wings. If you are demons cloaked in dragon flesh, you will die here. If your forms are true, and if Draco starlight shines upon you, you will survive. We will fight with you then."
Agnus Dei roared and lashed her tail. "What do we do?"
Nehushtan gazed at the bloody blades that filled the stone rings. "Fly through the stone rings, from largest to smallest. The blades inside the rings are poisoned; a scrape is lethal. If you fly too clumsily, the blades will kill you. The blades will lengthen as you fly, blooming like steel flowers. If you fly slowly, they will kill you. Fly straight. Fly fast. Or you will die."
Agnus Dei and Kyrie stared at the stone rings. Those rusty, bloody blades seemed to stare back. Fly through the rings? It's impossible, Agnus Dei thought. Impossible! The first hoop was twelve feet wide. That was large enough for a slim, serpentine salvana to clear. They had no wings, no limbs, and a body lithe and long. But how would she, a Vir Requis with long wings and limbs, fly through this ring of death? And even if she cleared the first ring, the second was only six feet wide, and the third—only three.
"Impossible," Agnus Dei said. "These hoops were built to test slim salvanae, not bulky Vir Requis. Give us another test."
Nehushtan shook his head. "This is the gauntlet of the dragon. If you cannot pass this test, you are weak, or you are demons in dragon form. A soul of Draco stars, worthy of our help, will fly through the Stone Rings. Fly now! Or leave our land and return to Osanna."
Agnus Dei stared at Nehushtan, the smoke from her maw obscuring her vision. Rage flared inside her. She wanted to fly at the priest and rip him to shreds. But she needed him. She needed his warriors. Agnus Dei closed her eyes, took deep breaths, and thought about her mother.
Mother has always loved me, she thought. Even when I yelled, or rebelled, or hated her—she loved me. She raised me, protected me, kept me alive as Dies Irae hunted us across the world. And now Lacrimosa was captured, maybe dead, maybe tortured. Father had gone to save her, but even the great Benedictus, the Black Fang, could not fight the might of Dies Irae and his hosts. Only I can save them, Agnus Dei knew.
She opened her eyes. "You're on," she said to Nehushtan. She flapped her wings.
"Wait!"
Kyrie grabbed her tail, holding her back. Agnus Dei howled and snapped her teeth at him, new fire filling her. "Let go, pup."
"No!" he said, eyes pained. "Agnus Dei, you'll die. Please. This is not the way."
She shook her head wildly, struggling to free herself. "If we cannot pass this gauntlet, we'll all die. You, me, Mother, Father, the memory of Requiem, the blood of Vir Requis. This is the only way, Kyrie. I can do this." She stopped struggling, flew toward him, and nuzzled his cheek. "I can do this," she whispered into his ear. "I love you, Kyrie. Believe in me."
His grip on her tail loosened. Agnus Dei flew toward the stone rings.
BENEDICTUS
Benedictus stood outside the city gates. People crowded around him—beggars in rags, peddlers riding wagons of trinkets, peasants leading oxen laden with grains and vegetables, merchants in fur coats, and pilgrims bearing coins for Sun God temples. Guards stood at the gates, golden griffins embroidered onto their red tunics, their armor burnished and their swords at their sides. They were searching everyone for weapons, collecting the gate tolls, and letting people into Confutatis one by one.
Benedictus grumbled, bent his head, and tugged his hood lower. Few people would recognize him in his human form—most knew him only as the black dragon—but he'd take no chances. He reached into his pocket and felt his coins—enough to bribe the guards should they become suspicious. He then felt at his side, where his dagger hung. The guards would confiscate this dagger if they let him in. If they caused trouble, he might bury it in their throats. Under his cloak, his fist clutched the hilt.
The people shuffled closer to the gates. Benedictus could hear the guards now. "Right, what's that then? No staffs. Give me that, old man. Nothing that can be used as a weapon. What's this here? I'll take that knife. Hand it over. All right, that's good copper; two coins a head. In you go. You there, two coppers toll, no blades, no arrows, no sticks or stones. Two coppers, you're good."
Benedictus scowled under his hood. Once he would fly into this city bearing banners, dine with the king in palaces, hear music in gardens between statues of angels. So much had changed. This city. Himself. The world. Benedictus ached for his daughters. My daughters will never know the world I did as a youth, a world of peace and beauty. To his daughters, it was this: a world of violence, hatred, and fear.
He shuffled closer in the crowd, one hand clutching his coins, the other his dagger. When he was ten people away, a chill ran through him. The guards held leaves, which they pressed against the chests of all who passed.
Benedictus growled.
Ilbane.
Benedictus wanted to turn away, to push back through the crowd, to find another gate. But he dared not. Too many people had seen him. To flee after seeing the ilbane would look suspicious. A few whispers in the crowd, and the guards would chase him. No. He'd enter these gates.
Ilbane burned hotter than fire, Benedictus knew. He could still feel that fire, all these years after Lanburg Fields where ilbane-coated arrows had pierced him. If the ilbane touched him, he would sweat, grunt, even scream. No Vir Requis could withstand its torture and remain composed; not even him, the great Benedictus the Black, the King of Requiem.
"Move along, come on, maggots. Move, damn you!" Two old peasants, possibly a husband and wife, were shuffling into the city. The guards had seized their canes, and they moved on shaky legs.
The guards growled, and one shouted. "Move it, peasants. We haven't got all day." Two guards shoved the old couple. They laughed as the peasants fell onto the cobblestones.
Grunting, Benedictus shoved his way through the last people in line. He tried to go help the peasants who lay on the ground beyond the gates.
"Hold there!" shouted a guard, and rough hands grabbed Benedictus's shoulders. He turned his head, scowling, to see two guards clutching him. Their faces were unshaven and their eyes red.
"I'm going to help them," Benedictus said in a low, dangerous growl.
The guards laughed, showing rotting teeth. Their breath stank. "No you're not, worm," one said. "Toll's two coppers. Pay up and open that cloak of yours. No weapons. No sticks or stones. And no lip."
One guard held ilbane a foot away from Benedictus. Even at this distance, Benedictus felt the heat and pain of those leaves. Sweat beaded on his brow.
"All right," he said, speaking slowly and carefully. He wanted nothing more than to kill these men, but then the entire city guard would fall upon him. Then he would let down Lacrimosa. Control your temper, he told himself. Be careful.
He grabbed three silver coins from his pockets. It was more than these guards would earn in a month. His teeth clenched, Benedictus slammed the three silvers against a guard's chest. "Your birthday present is early this year," he said in a low voice. "Now let me through, no questions asked, and you'll get another gift when I leave tonight."
The guard stared at the coins, and his eyes widened. He bit one and raised an eyebrow. "Who are you, peasant?" he asked, voice low.
"A private man," Benedictus said. "Now let me through."
Without waiting for a reply, he took a step toward the gate. He took a second step. A third. He forced himself to move slowly, to breathe calmly.
A hand clutched his shoulder.
"All right, stranger, no questions," spoke the guard who'd taken the coins. "You like your privacy, and you can pay for it. But we must do one thing."
The guard shoved the ilbane against Benedictus's chest.
AGNUS DEI
Agnus Dei shot toward the first stone ring, eyes narrowed. She could still hear Nehushtan's voice echoing in her mind: The blades will lengthen as you fly, blooming like steel flowers. If you fly slow, they will kill you. Fly straight. Fly fast. Or you will die. Agnus Dei snarled, pulled her limbs and wings close, and became a long, thin shape.
The ring's blades creaked.
Agnus Dei shot forward.
The bloody blades began to extend.
Agnus Dei screamed, shooting into the hoop. A blade scratched one of her scales, and Agnus Dei howled, but she was safe; it had not touched her blood, had not infested her with poison.
"I made it!" she cried.
"Quick, the other ring!" Kyrie shouted.
The blades in the second, smaller ring were also extending; the opening was barely four feet wide now. Agnus Dei snarled and shot forward, knowing it was too narrow for her dragon body. The ring was close now, inches away. Agnus Dei screamed as she shifted. In midair, she became human and somersaulted through the hoop. A rusty blade sliced a strand of her hair. She was through! She shifted back into a dragon and howled.
"The third ring, hurry!" Kyrie cried, and Agnus Dei grunted and flew. No, impossible! The third ring was so small, three feet wide, and its blades were extending inward. There were barely two feet between the blades now.
"Hurry!"
Agnus Dei sucked in her breath, flew, and shifted again. She was human, tumbling through the air. Instead of somersaulting through this hoop, she dived. She held out her arms, and pulled her legs together, and held her breath.
She shot through the last hoop, the blades shredding her clothes.
She fell through air.
"I'm through!" she cried, falling toward the skeletons below. Before she could hit them, she shifted into a dragon again, and shot into the sky with a roar and shower of flame. "I'm through!"
The salvanae began bugling, heads tossed back. Agnus Dei panted, hovering in midair. The blades in the rings pulled back into the stone, leaving just their rusty tips. I made it. I'm going to save you, Mother. Tears stung her eyes.
Kyrie roared and flew toward the stone rings. He too flew through the first, wide ring in dragon form. He then shifted in midair and tumbled through the second, smaller ring in human form. He shifted into dragon shape, flapped his wings, shifted again. He dived through the last, smallest ring. The blades ripped his cloak, tore off his left boot, and sliced strands of his hair.
Once through the third ring, he became a dragon again and flew beside Agnus Dei, panting. The salvanae cried to the sky, their roars shaking the world. Three pillars cracked and tumbled into the darkness.
"We did it!" Agnus Dei roared to the salvanae. "We passed your test. We proved our dragon worth. Now fly with us. Tonight! Fly with us to war."
The salvanae blew lightning into the skies. They looked at one another, at Agnus Dei and Kyrie, at one another again. They spoke rapidly, some shouting, some whispering, some spitting lightning.
"Well?" Agnus Dei said and roared. "Stay true to your word! Fly with us. Or are you cowards and liars?"
The dragons roared, and blew more lightning, and spoke louder. Finally Nehushtan shouted above them, and the others silenced. The High Priest turned toward Agnus Dei. His eyes were narrowed, and smoke left his nostrils. He coiled through the sky, flying toward her, and stared into her eyes. Angus Dei saw lightning in those eyes.
"Tonight," he said, "the salvanae fly to war."
As the salvanae flew, and the Vir Requis followed, Agnus Dei tightened her lips and shivered. Confutatis lay many days away. She was bringing help... and she prayed that she wasn't too late.
"Hang in there, Mother," she whispered. "I'll be there soon."
BENEDICTUS
Pain like shattered glass filled him.
The guard held the ilbane against his chest, and Benedictus wanted to die. The fire spread across his ribs, into his heart, down his spine, and scorched his fingertips. He had not felt such agony since Lanburg Fields.
"How does it feel, old man?" the guard asked, eyes narrowed.
With every last drop of will, Benedictus forced himself to remain silent, to keep his face calm. He even tried to will sweat from appearing on his brow.
"Fine," he whispered. He could speak no louder. He wanted to fall to his knees. He wanted to kill the guard. He wanted anything but to remain standing, casual, the ilbane against him. Take it off! he wanted to scream. I've stood my ground. Remove the leaves!
But the guard held them against Benedictus. "Are you sure?" he asked, frowning. "You look pale. And there's sweat on your brow."
Benedictus growled, though he wanted to scream in pain. The fire! The fire filled him. It was too much, too much. This must be how women feel at childbirth, he thought, almost blind with pain. Stars and mist flooded his vision.
"It's been a long journey," he somehow managed to say, mustering all his will to stop his voice from cracking. "If I were a bloody weredragon, this stuff would kill me, not just bring sweat to my brow."
The guard's frown deepened. Take it off, take it off! Benedictus did not think he could last a second longer. He was just about to shift into a dragon, to kill every guard he saw, to storm the city, when....
"All right," the guard said and pulled the ilbane back. "Sorry to trouble you, and I know you pay well. In you go."
Benedictus turned around quickly, and once the guard was behind him, he grimaced. His knees trembled, but he forced himself to keep walking. Once in the city, he knelt by the fallen old man and woman, who were still struggling to rise from the cobblestones. He knelt not only to help them; he could no longer stand upright.
"Here," he said to the old peasants when he'd caught his breath, "let me help you up."
He took several more deep breaths, assisted the peasants to their feet, and walked deeper into Confutatis, leaving the gates behind.
"I'm almost there, Lacrimosa," he whispered. "Almost there to save you, my love." He clenched his fists. "And I'll find you too, Gloriae. I'll find you, daughter, and I'll free you too from Dies Irae."
He moved through the city, cloak pulled tight around him, hood low. His old wound ached with new fire, his joints burned, and his head pounded. The ilbane had taken so much of his strength. Benedictus could barely walk. If soldiers attacked him now, he would not fight well. He grunted, leaned against a wall, and clutched his chest.
Some hero, he thought as he stood, catching his breath. Look at the great king now. Just a gruff old man sneaking through alleys, grunting in pain.
As he took ragged breaths, Benedictus noticed people rushing down the cobbled streets. Kids were jostling one another as they ran, smashing dragon dolls with wooden swords. Adults were placing bets and talking about "the beast" fighting new creatures today, "something truly deadly; lions I hear, or elephants in armor." Most of those hurrying down the street were commoners, but Benedictus also saw two wealthy merchants in a carriage, and even a noblewoman on a palanquin.
The beast.
Benedictus steadied himself and kept walking. He stumbled down the cobbled road among the commoners, nobles, and horses. Crenellations and towers rose at his sides, laden with guards sporting the golden griffin upon their shields. Real griffins stood atop towers and walls, armored, staring down at the crowd.
At every square he passed, Benedictus saw a marble statue of Dies Irae. The statues all stared toward the heavens, one fist against the heart, the other around a sword hilt. In the statues, Dies Irae still had both his hands. But Benedictus remembered biting off the left one, spitting it out, then taking pity on his brother. I left you alive, Irae. If I meet you again, you will find that my mercy has left me.
Benedictus did not want to meet his brother. He wanted only to find Lacrimosa and Gloriae, to steal them back, to flee with them into the west. He'd had enough of fighting, of killing, of his monstrous brother. And yet, another part of him did want to meet Dies Irae here. Craved it. That part felt like a shark in bloodlust, wanting only to bite, to kill. Benedictus hated that part of him, and hated Dies Irae for placing it within him.
The streets of Confutatis widened as he walked, clutching his chest. The crowds thickened, some chanting "Blood for the beast!" Fortresses towered here, and griffins circled in the skies. Soldiers stood at every street corner, and monoliths of Dies Irae gazed down from hills, jeweled eyes watching the crowds. Troops patrolled between the commoners, armor chinking.
The Marble City—once a place of gardens, of peace, of poets and artists. Now a city of sword and shield, of beak and talon.
Soon he beheld the amphitheater of Confutatis, a ring of white marble. Its walls rose two hundred feet, set with alcoves that held statues. Years ago, solemn stone statues of kings had filled these alcoves; today he saw figures of Dies Irae holding the Sun Disk. A golden idol stood outside the amphitheater's gates, a hundred feet tall, hands raised. It was carved as a young Dies Irae, cherubic, a halo encircling his brow.
"The beast is hungry today, I hear," said a bearded man beside Benedictus, speaking to his friends. "Whatever Dies Irae has in store for her today, it ain't gonna be enough. I bet a bronze coin on her."
One of his friends snickered. "That beast ain't nothing but a tired old lizard. Irae's been feeding her dust, I hear, and whipping her. The creature's too thin and weak to win another fight. I'll take your bronze."
The first man laughed. "Torture makes that one hungry and mean. Who else? Bronze on the weredragon!"
Weredragon.
Inside his hood, Benedictus growled. That was a cruel word, a slur that should never be uttered, least of all by scraggly men who bet on misery and blood. He stepped toward them.
"A fool bets against a proud, dying race," he said, voice low. "And a greater fool stages fights for fools' bets."
The men laughed. "What are you, a poet or something?" the first man said, scratching his beard. Fleas filled it.
"You know me," Benedictus rasped. "You know my name. Your lord wants me forgotten, but it will not be so. You will hear our roar again."
With that he left them, stepping toward the amphitheater's gates. Foolish thing to say, he knew. Why did he risk his cover for these men? He forced himself to focus, to forget these cruel crowds, to remember his task. I will save you, Lacrimosa, he thought. Soon you'll be flying west with me to find our children. Kyrie too was his child now, by adoption if not by blood. All the last Vir Requis were his children, his torch to keep aflame.
And I have not forgotten you, Gloriae. In the deepest corners of his heart, Benedictus knew that Gloriae was evil now, corrupted and cruel. She might be unreachable to him, a maiden of steel in her palace, but Benedictus dared to dream, dared to pray that he could save her.
He paid to enter the amphitheater, stepped inside, and found himself dizzy. Tens of thousands of people surrounded him, cheering from a hundred tiers of marble seats. Slave girls danced in the arena, chains binding their necks, raising sand under their feet. They were nude, their bodies painted red and gold. Benedictus knew that their heavy makeup hid bruises, and one's nose was bandaged. Guards watched the dancers from the sidelines, clutching whips.
Benedictus imagined those whips cutting Lacrimosa, and he clenched his fists and ground his teeth. Below the lowest tier of seats, Benedictus saw doorways and stairwells leading underground. Which leads to Lacrimosa? Benedictus wanted to bash down every door, storm down every passageway, and save his wife. He forced himself to wait. There were many doorways here, and many guards, and he would not find her. If he charged brazenly, like Kyrie might, he'd only get himself killed, and probably earn torture for Lacrimosa.
"Patience," he told himself. "You're not a rash, hot-headed youth like Kyrie or Agnus Dei. You can wait. Bide your time. Learn where she is."
Nobody noticed him talking to himself. The crowds were too busy cheering, stamping their feet, and leering at the dancers. Benedictus found his seat on the thirtieth row and sat on the cold stone. A father with two children sat to his left. To his right sat two young maidens, henna on their eyelids and perfume on their fair skin. Both wore white silk that revealed more flesh than it hid.
Families with children, Benedictus thought in disgust. Young women on a day out. The blood of Requiem is sport for them.
The dancers finished their dance, bowed to the crowd, and disappeared into an underground passageway. Silence fell upon the crowd, and everyone leaned forward, waiting for the beast to emerge. Only Benedictus did not stare at the arena. He scanned the crowds until he found the man he sought.
Dies Irae.
His brother sat across the amphitheater, a palanquin of samite shading him. Two griffin statues guarded his sides, and a slave girl lay collared at his feet. Dies Irae wore his white, jeweled armor. Sun God warriors stood at his sides, his elite guard, their helmets shaped as sunbursts, their swords shaped as sunbeams.
"Hello, brother," Benedictus whispered. "It's been a long time."
Three hundred feet away, Dies Irae raised his eyes and stared at Benedictus.
Ice shot through Benedictus. He froze, unable to look away. How could it be? How could Dies Irae have heard him? Benedictus was about to run, but then Dies Irae looked away. Heart racing, Benedictus took a deep breath. He couldn't have seen me. My face is hidden in my hood. It was only chance.
His heart was still thrashing when Sun God priests stepped onto the arena, saluted Dies Irae, and began to sing a hymn. The crowd rose to their feet. Benedictus did not want to rise, but forced himself to. The priests were clad in white, and white masks hid their faces. They sang for the Sun God to bless Dies Irae, the favored child of the heavens, and to grant death to his enemies.
"Child of the heavens," Benedictus grumbled. "He's calling himself the son of gods now."
When the song ended, the priests pulled forward a child in silk, her face also masked. The priests cried for the glory of the Sun God, and before Benedictus realized what would happen, they had set the girl on fire.
"No!" Benedictus cried, jumping to his feet. Nobody heard him. The crowd was cheering for the Sun God, crying out for his glory and blessings. The girl was still alive; she thrashed and screamed, a ball of fire, before falling dead to the ground.
The priests extinguished the flames with sand, then raised the small, smoldering body over their heads. They sang, calling for the Sun God to accept this offering, to grant them triumph, and to curse the weredragons who tainted the world. The crowd cheered.
The burned girl twitched and moaned.
She's alive! Benedictus wanted to retch. The small figure, blistered and smoldering, was whimpering. The priests placed her down and stabbed her dead.
Benedictus sat down, shaken. He'd seen much cruelty during the war against Dies Irae years ago. He'd seen people burn to death. He'd seen Dies Irae murder children. But this... this was different. The war had ended. Dies Irae had won his glory, his throne. Why this killing? Why still the torture and murder of innocents? Benedictus had always known his brother was evil, but for the first time, he realized how truly insane the man was.
The entire city seemed just as insane, Benedictus thought. Dies Irae and his god had turned these people into... what? Monsters? Demons? Benedictus had no name for it. In their eyes, he was the monster. Benedictus was no scholar. He could not explain this. He only knew he had to end it.
I can't just take Lacrimosa and Gloriae and flee, he realized. I have to stop my brother. Not only for the memory of Requiem, but for the fate of the world.
Before he could wonder how, gates opened below, and guards dragged out a chained, beaten Lacrimosa.
LACRIMOSA
Lacrimosa limped when the guards pulled her chains. They had sent strange creatures to fight her yesterday—furry beasts wielding hammers—and she had killed them, but not before one hammered her leg. What would Dies Irae unleash against her today? Creatures of horn, or talons, or fangs? More slaves with swords, or bears in spiked armor? How long before one of these creatures killed her, ending her pain?
As the crowds cheered around her, and the sunlight blinded her, Lacrimosa lowered her head. Today she would not fight. Whatever beasts attacked her, she would let them. She would endure their horns, claws, or fangs, let them tear her apart and end her misery.
"I'm sorry, Ben," she whispered, tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough, that I couldn't hold on. I love you. Find our children. Fly away from here. My time is ended, and I will soon join the spirits of Requiem, and see those halls among the birches once more." She smiled through her tears. The spirits of her forefathers awaited her, and she would drink wine in their halls.
When she'd reached the arena's center, the guards attached her leash to a post. They left her there. The crowds jeered and pelted her with rotten fruit.
A trapdoor on the floor opened. Three red tigers emerged, blew flames from their maws, and raced toward her.
Lacrimosa lowered her head. "Goodbye, Ben," she whispered, waiting for the tigers. "Goodbye."
And then she heard a voice.
"Lacrimosa."
She opened her eyes.
"My love."
The tigers reached her, and Lacrimosa lashed her tail, sending them flying. She looked around wildly. Who had spoken? She could see nobody. The voice had not come from the crowds; it seemed to have spoken within her. A tiger leaped at her. She clawed it, kicked it aside, and lashed her horns against another tiger.
"Lacrimosa, of moonlit hair and eyes of stars. Lacrimosa, daughter of Requiem. You do not die today."
Light broke through the clouds, falling upon her, and she felt Benedictus with her. She couldn't see him, but she knew he was near. She knew these were the whispers of his soul, his ancient magic, flowing through her.
The tigers leaped and bit, but they could not hurt her today. Today the light of her ancestors, and love of her king, filled her with more strength than Dies Irae could conquer. She slew these tigers of fire upon the sand, and roared to the city of Confutatis, and flapped her wings, and watched them cower.
"For Benedictus, and for Requiem," she whispered, tears on her cheeks. "Let this city see our pride one last day."
The guards dragged her back into her cell underground, and chained her to the wall, and slammed the door shut, but even in the darkness Lacrimosa could see that light, feel that warmth.
"Benedictus is here," she whispered.
BENEDICTUS
Benedictus walked through the shadows. It was a starless night, a black night of the soul, and he held his breath as he padded across the cobblestones. The amphitheater was deserted now. Only three soldiers had guarded it; he had knocked them out with barely a sound. The arena now held nothing but silence, sand, and him—King Benedictus.
Once he had led armies in war. Once he had led men, women, and children to die under his banners. Once, years ago, he'd have stormed this place with fang and fire and fury, would have brought the might of Requiem upon its walls and shattered them. Tonight he lurked, a shadow, alone in darkness and pain.
He'd seen where they kept her. He crept to that old, iron trapdoor in the arena's floor. He tugged at it. It was locked, but Benedictus had taken the keys from those guards he sent to sleep. He tried the keys now, one by one, until one fit. The lock clicked, and Benedictus opened the trapdoor.
Cold air blew from below. At first Benedictus saw only darkness, but soon he discerned soft light, like a glint from silver scales.
"Lacrimosa," he whispered.
Before he could enter the dungeon, a caw sounded behind Benedictus. He spun around, eyes narrowed. A shadow darted, then vanished. Benedictus stared, heart racing, but saw nothing. An owl, he decided. Nothing more. He turned back to the door.
"Lacrimosa," he whispered again.
For a moment there was only silence. Then he heard a voice from below, a voice soft and pure as moonlight. "Ben?"
Tears filled his eyes. He shivered and could barely breathe. "Hang on, my love. I'm coming down, I—"
Something creaked behind him.
Benedictus spun around, and then he saw him.
Upon the seats of the amphitheater, high above and watching him, stood Volucris, the King of Griffins. Dies Irae sat upon the beast, clad in armor.
"Hello, brother," Dies Irae called down. "Hello, Benedictus, King of Weredragons, Lord of Lizards. Welcome to my home."
With a growl, Benedictus shifted.
Volucris swooped.
A black dragon blowing fire, Benedictus leaped toward the griffin.
His joints still ached from the ilbane. His heart was still heavy. But tonight Benedictus ignored the pain. With a howl, he slammed against Volucris, crashing with a ball of fire, his roars shaking the world. Volucris shrieked, clawed, and bit. They broke apart. They leaped again.
"Tonight you're mine, brother!" Dies Irae called from atop Volucris, aiming a lance. "Did you truly think that I didn't see you earlier today?"
Benedictus roared and snapped his teeth. Volucris pulled back. Benedictus's teeth clanged against Dies Irae's shield.
"I saw you, brother," Dies Irae laughed. "I saw you today, and I have seen you for years in my mind. I saw you whenever I crushed a bug under my foot, or cut the head off a serpent that crawled through dust."
Volucris bit, Benedictus pulled back, and the beak scratched him. Benedictus howled, raised his claws, and blew fire. Volucris soared and prepared to swoop. Benedictus shot up, crashed into the griffin, and sent it tumbling.
Dies Irae spurred Volucris and flew high. Benedictus followed. The amphitheater was soon distant below, and Volucris swooped toward Benedictus. He met the griffin head on, crashing into him with biting teeth and scratching claws. Feathers and scales flew. Blood rained. They pulled apart, roared, and crashed again. Fire crackled.
"You've slowed down, brother!" Dies Irae howled, laughing, mad. Volucris burned but still fought. Dies Irae's cape caught fire, but still the madman cackled. "You have slowed, you have aged, and now I will kill you. Tonight you die."
They were high above the city now. The marble streets and forts of Confutatis seemed like toys below, small fires burning among them. Benedictus swiped his claws, but his brother was right. He was slow now. His torn wing screamed. Volucris pulled back, dodging the blow, and scratched. More scales fell, and blood seeped down Benedictus's leg.
He shouted with fire and pain. "Return the Griffin Heart, brother. Return the amulet that you stole. These beasts are not yours to tame. This throne is not yours to—"
Dies Irae pulled a crossbow from his saddle and shot. The quarrel hit Benedictus in the shoulder.
Pain flowed through him, the pain of ilbane, not old leaves like the guards had used, but the pure juice of the plant. It coated the dart, spreading fire through him. Benedictus howled. The city spun below. The statues and temples and streets all blurred. More griffins lurked there, but Benedictus could barely see them. Tears filled his eyes.
With all his will, he flapped his wings and lunged at his brother. "It ends tonight, Irae. Tonight you—"
Dies Irae fired his crossbow again. A quarrel hit Benedictus's chest. He howled, blood in his eyes, blood in his mouth.
"Oh dear, brother," Dies Irae said. He raised his visor, and through squinting eyes, Benedictus saw that he was smiling. "Oh dear indeed. All these years you've hidden, Benedictus. All these years you've dreamed of revenge. Only to fail like this... an old man, tired, Lacrimosa now my slave and—"
"You will not say her name!" Benedictus said. He did not know how he still flew. He'd never taken so much ilbane, had never felt such agony, but Lacrimosa's name on Dies Irae's tongue tore him with more anguish than the poison.
Somehow, impossibly, he flew against his brother. He bit and he clawed.
Dies Irae shot a third time.
The quarrel hit Benedictus's neck.
He tried to scream. He tried to blow fire. He tried to bite, to claw, to kill his brother. But he could not even flap his wings. He could not even breathe.
I'm sorry, Lacrimosa, he thought, tears falling, before darkness spread across his eyes. I'm so sorry.
Benedictus the Black, King of Requiem, closed his eyes and fell from the sky.