AGNUS DEI
"Father, please, will you stop doing that?" Agnus Dei said. She snorted, blowing back a curl of her hair.
Father growled. "Doing what?"
"Humming. You've been humming for days."
He scowled at her, the legendary scowl of King Benedictus. "I do not sing. I do not dance. And I definitely do not hum."
Agnus Dei shook her fist. "Stars, are you stubborn!"
They walked in silence for long moments. Their boots rustled weeds that grew from the road. A stream gurgled at their side, and oaks swayed around them, their leaves red and yellow. Blue mountains soared to the east.
"There!" she suddenly said, wheeling toward Father. "What was that?"
Benedictus raised his eyebrows. "What?"
"That sound! That sound that left your throat. That hum."
He snorted. "That was no hum. That was just me clearing my throat."
"You clear your throat to the tune of Old Requiem Woods?"
He sighed and shook his head. "Agnus Dei, do you have something against Old Requiem Woods?"
She jumped up and down in rage and kicked a rock. "Oh, it is a lovely tune... if you're eighty years old. And you have a lovely humming voice... that is, if you're a toad. But since I'm nineteen, and not a toad, I would dearly appreciate it if you stopped humming. Okay? You've been humming Old Requiem Woods for three days. Three days. I've had enough of Old... Requiem... Woods. For a lifetime."
His eyes twinkled, and King Benedictus, the Black Fang himself, began to sing. "Old Requiem Woods, where do thy harpists play, in Old Requiem Woods, where do thy dragons—"
Agnus Dei gave the longest, loudest groan of her life. "Father!"
He laughed, a sound like stones rolling. "Okay, Agnus Dei, but tell me one thing. How did your Mother ever handle you?"
She stared at him. "Maybe you'd know, if you were with us."
He sighed. "Daughter, we've been over this. You know it was dangerous. You know we had to stay separate. I wanted to see you more often, but—"
"But yes, we couldn't keep all our eggs in one basket, griffins were hunting us, this and that. I've heard it all before. Let's just walk in silence, okay? I don't want to talk. I don't want singing or humming. I just want some silence."
Father winced. Good, Agnus Dei thought. She wanted to hurt him. The man might be the King of Requiem, a warrior and leader of legend, but he was intolerable. Agnus Dei couldn't understand how Mother could love him so much, or how Kyrie could worship him. He scowled all the time. He hummed. He snored. When she did try to talk to him, he was about as interesting as a log. He looked a bit like a log too, if you asked Agnus Dei.
She sighed. Though she'd never admit it aloud, she missed Kyrie. He was a pup, of course, but a cute pup. She missed seeing the anger in his eyes when she taunted him. She missed kissing him, and.... Blood rushed into her cheeks. Yes, she even missed those things they did in darkness, when nobody was there to see. Lovemaking. Loud, fiery, sweaty and—
Agnus Dei shoved the thought aside. This was no time for such thoughts. They would soon be in the ruins of Requiem and delve underground. Agnus Dei shuddered.
"Father," she said, "what do you know of the tunnels under Requiem? Where the scrolls are?"
Benedictus seemed to be looking inward, and a soft smile touched his lips. "They are where Requiem began. Before we learned how to build homes of stone, we lived in those tunnels. We painted murals on their walls, and carved doorways and smooth floors. After we moved overground, they remained holy to us, dry and dark. I loved them as a child. I would explore them with lamps and candles, and read all day."
"What did you like to read?" she asked. It was hard to imagine Father as a child. The man was so gruff, all stubble and muscle and leathery skin, his hair like iron. What would he have looked like as a child?
"I read everything I could find, from prayer books to stories of trolls and maidens and heroes."
Agnus Dei sighed. Maybe Father wasn't so bad after all. She slipped her hand into his. "What happened to the tunnels after... after Dies Irae?"
Benedictus looked to the sky and rubbed his chest, where Dies Irae's spear had cut him in Lanburg Fields. "We fled there at first. We sought safety from griffins underground. But Dies Irae sent poison into the tunnels."
"Ilbane?" Agnus Dei asked. Dies Irae had attacked her with ilbane once; the stuff burned like fire.
"Worse," Benedictus said.
"Worse than ilbane?" She shuddered.
"Evil smoke, sickly green. I don't know where he found the magic. Thousands of Vir Requis fell ill in the tunnels, and... changed. Scales grew on them."
"You mean they shifted into dragons?"
He shook his head, eyes dark. "No, they stayed in human form. And these were no dragon scales, but clammy scales, gray and white, like those of a fish. People's eyes bulged from their heads, bloated and yellow, and their fingers became webbed."
Agnus Dei shivered and felt ill. "What happened then? Did they die?"
Benedictus lowered his head. His voice was low. "No. They lived. But they hated daylight, hated life. We burned them. We killed them for mercy. Some escaped deep into the tunnels, and we couldn't find them. But before we fled into the skies, and to Lanburg Fields, we made fires and—"
"Stop," Agnus Dei whispered. She felt the blood leave her face, and cold sweat trickled down her back. Her fingers trembled.
Benedictus nodded. "Those were dark days."
They walked in silence for several hours, first down cobbled roads, and then down dirt roads, and finally through open country. At first trees rustled around them, but as they walked, the trees dwindled and vanished. Burned logs and ash littered the ground. Soon they saw toppled columns, strewn bricks, broken statues, and scattered bones.
They had arrived in Requiem.
They walked silently through the ruins, daggers drawn. Vultures flew under the overcast sky, and bugs scurried around their boots. Nothing else lived here. A cold wind ruffled their cloaks. As they kept walking, more bones littered the earth, thousands of Requiem's skeletons. Once this place rustled with birch trees, and marble halls rose here, filled with laughter and harp songs, Agnus Dei thought. Once we sang here in temples and played in forests. And once we died here; all of us but five.
She wanted to talk to Father. She wanted to ask about the old life here. Her memories were vague; she had been only three when Dies Irae destroyed this place. But she dared not speak. This place was holy, the graveyard of their kind. Any words would defile it, she thought. She looked around at the skeletons and wondered if any were her cousins, uncles and aunts, childhood friends. The skeleton of a mother huddled the skeleton of her baby. The spines were broken.
Tears filled Agnus Dei's eyes. She hugged herself, and Father placed an arm around her. Finally she dared speak.
"I want to be angry," she whispered, tears in her eyes. "I want to hate Dies Irae. And I do, but... I don't feel hatred or anger now. I feel sadness."
Benedictus held her as they walked, but said nothing. She continued speaking.
"I'm sad to see the bones, and the broken columns, and the ash. All the ruin. But mostly, I'm sad to see the living Vir Requis. I can see them in my mind. The columns still stand, and the trees still rustle. I can hear the songs and harps, the prayers to the Draco stars. It is those visions that make me sad, the lost life more than this death. Does that make sense, Father?"
He nodded and kissed her head.
She looked up to the western horizon. The sun was low, a blob of red like blood. "Night is almost here," she whispered.
They found three columns that had fallen over one another, forming a huddle between them. They sat there in the shadows, hugged their knees, and waited for darkness.
When the sun vanished, the nightshades emerged.
Agnus Dei shivered and hugged her father. He held her and whispered, "Do not move, do not speak. We will be safe. Same as last night. I'll watch first."
She nodded silently, shivering. She could not sleep. The nightshades screamed above, and several times, she saw them dip to swirl among the ruins, then fly into the sky again. Agnus Dei hated those creatures. Hated them with such fire, she wanted to fly at them and torch them all.
"Do you think we'll find answers in the tunnels?" she whispered to Father. "Instructions for how to reseal them?"
He stared grimly out of their huddle, where nightshades swarmed and screeched. "I don't know."
Finally Agnus Dei found fitful sleep, her head against Father's shoulder. Whenever a nightshade shrieked, she started and woke, then slept again. Benedictus watched all night; he let her sleep as best she could.
Finally dawn rose—cold, gray, scented of fire and death.
They continued to walk, cloaks wrapped tight around them. The wind blew, scattering ash. Agnus Dei wondered if the dead Vir Requis had become this ash that stained her clothes, covered her face, and filled her hair. They passed communal graves, some which hadn't been covered. Hundreds of skeletons filled them. Bugs scuttled between the bones. Once they stepped over marble tiles, smashed and crooked, half-buried in dirt. This had once been the floor of a temple or palace. One wall still stood, three skeletons propped against it, staring with empty sockets.
"Why were they not buried?" Agnus Dei whispered, fiery tears in her eyes. "They were just... left here."
Benedictus nodded. "We fled. Griffins and men chased us. We fled into the fields, but died there too. We buried most, whoever we could. We burned others. For every skeleton you see above the earth, we buried a hundred, maybe a thousand."
Agnus Dei covered her mouth. She felt sick. "But there are thousands of skeletons here. That means... Dies Irae must have killed...." She tried to do the math, and felt the blood leave her face.
Benedictus nodded, his own face pale. "A million Vir Requis once lived here, maybe more. Dies Irae murdered all but five. You, me, your sister, your mother. And Kyrie."
Agnus Dei shivered. She had been to Requiem once before, stopping here in dragon form. It was the place she had fought Gloriae. But this was the first time she explored it on foot, seeing all this death, this loss.
"Did we fight well?" she asked. "How many of Osanna's men did we kill?"
"We fought well. We killed many. We toppled their walls, and crashed their forts, and tore into their armies with fangs and claws and fire. We killed countless of Osanna's sons. But they outnumbered us. Twenty to one, or more. They had griffins and ilbane. We could not win."
"But we will win," Agnus Dei said. "The war is not over yet. Not while I draw breath." She clutched Father's hand. "We're going to find scrolls here, and they'll tell us how to seal the nightshades. And Mother will align us with the griffins. And then Dies Irae will fall. Then we'll rebuild this place, and bury the dead, and Requiem will shine again." Tears ran down her cheeks.
Benedictus pointed to a pile of scattered bricks, a fallen gateway, and cracked tiles. "There, Agnus Dei. It's an entrance to the tunnels."
They approached, and pushed aside a burned bole, and saw stairs leading underground. Agnus Dei shivered. Icy wind blew from below, and she could see only ten or fifteen steps down, before the stairs disappeared into darkness.
"What do you think is down there now?" she asked and tightened her grip on her dagger.
"Hopefully some information."
Agnus Dei shivered to remember the stories of the poisoned Vir Requis, the fish scales that grew across them, and their eyes that bulged. "Do you think... do you think the Poisoned are still down there?"
"I don't think so, Agnus Dei."
She took a deep breath. I don't think so. Not no. Not of course not, don't be foolish, Agnus Dei. Only... I don't think so. It wasn't comforting.
"Let's go," she said. "We'll grab scrolls about nightshades and get out of here. I don't like this place."
She grabbed a broken lance from the ground, tore a strip off her cloak, and fashioned a torch. Benedictus did the same, then lit the torches with his tinderbox.
Daggers and torches held before them, they stepped down into darkness.
LACRIMOSA
She hid underwater in dragon form, lungs ready to burst. Nightshades swarmed above, dipping their heads into the sea, screeching, then emerging into the air again. Lacrimosa felt ready to faint. Stars glided before her eyes.
She flapped her tail, forcing herself through the water. When she thought no nightshades saw, she peeked her nostrils over the water, took a breath, and dived again. She kept swimming.
It's almost day, she thought. Please, stars, make it be almost day.
But it was not. The night was still long, a night of nightshades over water, of aching lungs, of stolen breaths. Several times the nightshades saw her. They swooped at her, screaming, sending her deep underwater. There she would swim, rise to the surface as far away as she could, and breathe again.
It was perhaps the longest night of Lacrimosa's life.
When finally dawn rose, the nightshades fled. Lacrimosa rose to the surface, lay floating on her dragon back, and wept. She wept so many tears, she could fill another sea.
She was thirsty, hungry, and bone tired. But she saw no islands, no place to rest. She took flight, wings aching. She flew over the sea, travelling east. How far was Leonis, the realm of griffins? It was a place of legend. Perhaps Leonis did not exist at all.
At noon, Lacrimosa could fly no longer. She floated on her back. She dived into the water several times, caught fish, and ate them. She was still thirsty, but there was nothing to drink but seawater. Then she flew again.
When evening began to fall, she saw an island in the distance. She hoped it was an island of Leonis, but it was only a desolate rock. Fatigued, she climbed onto the island and collapsed.
As she waited for nightfall, it began to rain. Lacrimosa drank from the rain puddles. She shivered in the cold and watched the thunder and lightning. No nightshades emerged this night. Perhaps Lacrimosa was too far now from Osanna. Was there any end to this sea, or was it only water and rocks? Thunder rolled and the rain intensified. Lacrimosa huddled against a boulder, wrapped her wings around her, and shivered until dawn.
She flew again over the sea. She flew into the east.
"I will find the griffins," she whispered into the wind. "I will find Volucris, their king. I will bring them back as allies. We will rebuild our home, Ben. We will rebuild our life and love among the birches."
Her wings stirred clouds. She could see nothing but sea on all horizons.
GLORIAE
Gloriae rode into the city of Confutatis, her sword drawn, her eyes narrowed.
The place lay in ruin.
"Stars," Kyrie muttered. He sat behind her in the saddle, arms wrapped around her waist. "This place is a graveyard."
Gloriae nodded, riding the horse at a light clip. The city gates were smashed open. Guards lay strewn around them, dead or empty shells. Their swords were drawn in their hands, but clean of blood. Past the gates, bodies littered the streets. Vultures, crows, and rats were feasting upon them, tearing off skin, fingers, faces. Blood and sewage flowed across the street. Stray dogs slunk in shadows, growling.
"I hope the library still stands," Gloriae said. Many buildings had fallen. Others burned. Wind shrieked through the streets, billowing smoke.
Kyrie pointed his dagger to a statue of Dies Irae, twenty feet tall and gilded, that stood in a square. "If that statue still stands, the library better too."
Gloriae gestured with her chin toward a distant wall. Soldiers moved there, crossbows in hands.
"Not all here are dead," she said. "Masks on."
She placed her priestess mask on. It was a blank mask, expressionless, formed of white wood. Kyrie did the same. With the white robes they already wore, she hoped nobody would recognize or trouble them.
A child came running toward them. Gloriae raised her sword.
"Halt!" she said. "Do not approach us, or you'll meet my blade."
The child, his clothes tattered and his face ashy, froze.
"Gloriae!" Kyrie said. "He's only a boy. Lower your blade." He looked at the child. "Are you hungry, kid?"
The child—he looked eight or nine years old—nodded. "There is no food here," he said meekly. "The people took what they could. They left the city." He had a black eye and was missing a tooth. "The ink monsters drove them away. They'll be here soon. They'll kill you too. The Light of the Sun God does not shine on them."
Kyrie rummaged through his things, found walnuts and an apple, and tossed them to the boy. The child caught the food, turned, and ran into an alley.
"You shouldn't have done that," Gloriae said, watching the dark alley. She wondered how many more children hid there. "This city must be swarming with beggars, and beggars are like stray cats; feed one, and they'll pester you in numbers. We need our food."
"You are sweet and caring as always, Gloriae. Your reign must have been a fabulous time for the city. Dies Irae the Benevolent and Gloriae the Kindhearted, they must have called you two." He snorted.
Gloriae frowned. "The reign of Dies Irae has not ended yet, Kyrie Eleison. I may be banished from his favor, but he rules still."
Kyrie snorted again. "Rules what, a pile of rocks, bodies, and looters? Aside from a few soldiers on those walls ahead, I see nobody. And in case you forgot, I freed the griffins."
Gloriae turned to face him. She gave him a blank, cold stare. "Dies Irae rules the nightshades now, and they are greater than any soldiers or griffins. Their worlds are greater than any cities of stone."
Kyrie stared back at her, eyes flashing. Then he turned his head, spat, and grunted. "Let's find this library."
Gloriae kneed her horse, leading it up the cobbled street, past the statue of Dies Irae, and up Market Lane. She wasn't used to travelling the city this way. Usually she flew over these streets on Aquila, her griffin, or rode in a procession, surrounded by guards and banners and horses clad in splendor. Riding alone with Kyrie, robes hiding the gold and jewels of her armor, she felt like a commoner.
As they rode deeper into the city, they saw more people. Most were beggars and outlaws and other commoners, those too poor to have fled the city. Gloriae wrinkled her nose at their filth and stench. There were soldiers too, their faces gaunt and their eyes sunken. All who saw Gloriae and Kyrie bowed, reached out dirty hands, and begged for prayer and favor. Even the soldiers dropped to their knees and pleaded.
"Pray for us, Sun God priests. Bless us. Shine your light on these dark days."
Behind her mask, Gloriae gritted her teeth. Soldiers bending the knee, forgetting their post? She was half tempted to pull back her cloaks, reveal her identity, and send them to the stocks. She forced herself to keep riding, shoving through them.
Kyrie muttered impromptu blessings to them. He obviously knew nothing about the Sun God; his blessings were probably botched translations of Dragontongue prayers.
Once they had moved through the people, and were riding down Blacksmith Road, Gloriae turned in the saddle to regard him.
"Kyrie," she said, "teach me to speak Dragontongue."
He raised an eyebrow. "Gloriae, this is hardly the time to request tutoring in dead languages."
"Firstly, I am not requesting; I am telling you. Secondly, it's not a dead language. It's what you speak with the other Vir Requis. I just realized that. You were all speaking High Speech for my benefit, but you probably speak Dragontongue amongst yourselves."
"Well, yes," Kyrie said. "But you probably used to speak it too. When you were three. Before Dies Irae kidnapped you from Requiem and took you to Osanna."
"I want to learn again."
Kyrie sighed. "Gloriae, first let's learn how to defeat these nightshades, or ink monsters as folk here seem to call them. All right? Now where's that library?"
"I'm taking us there. Be patient."
They kept riding deeper into the city. Gloriae couldn't help but frown at the devastation. Statues of Dies Irae lay toppled in every square. Most of the buildings were nothing but rubble, and blood seeped from beneath them. Several times, Gloriae saw hands, heads, and legs peeking from the rubble. They were rotting and raising a stench. Around one fallen column, she saw several survivors huddling around a fire, eating what seemed to be a dog. Gloriae covered her mouth, looked away, and rode by.
Soon they rode by the palace. A colossus of Dies Irae had stood here once, marble and gold, gazing over the city. Today the statue's head lay on the road, ten feet tall. As Gloriae rode around it, she wondered where the real Dies Irae was. Did he still sit on the Ivory Throne, encased in nightshades?
She looked up to the palace. Several of its towers had fallen. The main hall's walls were cracked, but still stood. Gloriae stared, feeling a chill.
"Dies Irae is in there," Kyrie whispered, echoing her thoughts.
Gloriae nodded. "Yes. How did you know?"
"I can feel it. Let's not go there. I don't want to get anywhere near Irae. At least, not until we figure out how to hurt his nightshades."
"Agreed. The library is behind the palace. We're almost there."
As they rode around the palace, they saw guards manning the walls and remaining tower. More guards patrolled the streets, crossbows in hand. Kyrie and Gloriae muttered prayers at them, raising their hands as if to bless them. The guards bowed their heads, whispering prayers in return. Their eyes swam with fear.
What has happened to my home? Gloriae thought. She felt close to tears. She had spent years in this palace, since she was only three. Here she had trained with blade, arrow, and fist. Here she had lived with May, her handmaiden and sweet friend. Where was May now? Did she still live in this palace, or had she fled the city? Gloriae had never had a friend but May.
"We must enter the palace," Gloriae whispered.
Kyrie groaned. "What? You're crazy, Gloriae. There's no way I'm going in there."
"So stay here. I... I must look for somebody."
"Who, Dies Irae? I thought we were going to avoid him."
"No. My... friend."
Kyrie snorted. "You have a friend? What, your favorite sword? A man-eating tiger? An iron maiden? Forget it, Gloriae. Benedictus sent us to the library."
"We'll go to the library. It'll only take a moment."
Kyrie moaned but said nothing more. Gloriae led her horse under a gateway, nodding to the guards.
"We've come to bless the palace with the light of the Sun God," Gloriae said to them.
They nodded and bowed their heads, and Gloriae and Kyrie rode through. They drew rein in a courtyard. Gloriae remembered that Dies Irae had once chained Lacrimosa here and tortured her. Pushing the memory aside, Gloriae dismounted, helped Kyrie off the horse, and they entered a back door into the palace.
The palace interior had fared scarcely better than its exterior. Suits of armor, tapestries, and swords had fallen. Bloodied prints covered the floor, and ash coated the walls. A servant lay soulless by a doorway, drooling, eyes staring.
"Not the best house guests, nightshades," Kyrie muttered.
Gloriae stared at the servant, a chill claiming her. Would she find May like this too, mindless and drooling?
"Come, Kyrie. Quickly."
They walked down several hallways and up three sets of stairs. Here, the third floor of the eastern wing, was Gloriae's domain, the place she had ruled for fifteen years. Almost running now, her boots clacking, Gloriae headed to the corner by the tower staircase, where May had a small room.
The door was closed. Gloriae paused outside it. She placed her hand on the knob, but dared not open it.
Kyrie caught up with her, muttering and glancing around nervously. When he saw her hand on the doorknob, his eyes softened. He sighed.
"Do you want me to look?" he said quietly.
Gloriae looked at him. His eyes, normally angry, now seemed concerned for her. Caring. Gloriae gritted her teeth. She needed nobody to care for her. She could do this. Whatever she found behind this door, she would deal with it.
She opened the door to May's room and stepped inside.
May lay nude on her bed. Her skull was broken; the wound looked like a mace's work. Her arms were bound.
"Stars," Kyrie whispered.
Gloriae stared at the scene, eyes dry. "She was raped," she said. Her voice sounded dead to her ears. She examined the wound on May's head. "A mace did this. My father's mace."
Kyrie placed a hand on her shoulder. "Gloriae, I'm sorry. Was this girl close to you?"
Gloriae spun to face him. He had removed his white mask. She saw herself reflected in his eyes.
"She was my best friend. My only friend. She... she was with me since childhood."
Kyrie tried to embrace her, but Gloriae shoved him back.
"No," she said. "Spare me your pity. I need no pity. I am Gloriae the Gilded, even now." She drew Per Ignem. "My father did this to her. When I was a child, and did poorly at a lesson of daggers, or at target practice, Dies Irae would be furious at me. He never beat me, though. He would beat May and make me watch. I watched. And I cried. And I knew that he desired May. I could see him staring at her, especially when we grew older." She looked back to the girl, and her voice softened. "But he can't hurt you anymore, May. Wherever you are now, you are safe from him."
Kyrie covered May with a blanket and looked at Gloriae, his eyes haunted. "I'm going to kill Dies Irae," he said.
Gloriae shook her head. "No, Kyrie. You will not. I will kill him."
They took May out of the palace, and built a pyre in the courtyard using firewood from the kitchens. They watched as the pyre burned, the fire drying her tears. You're with the Sun God now, Gloriae thought, staring into the flames. Pain like she had never felt filled her. The world entire was on fire. I'll avenge you, May. I swear. I love you.
She turned from the fire and lowered her head. Her fists clenched at her sides.
"Come," she said to Kyrie. "The library is near."
They walked silently around the palace, past a cobbled yard, around several toppled statues, and across a bridge. Gloriae breathed out in relief. The library still stood. It was an ancient building, three stories tall and round, topped with a bronze dome. She and Kyrie climbed the stairs, opened the doors, and stepped into a shadowy chamber.
For a moment they froze, gaping.
"Wow," Kyrie finally said, finding his voice.
Gloriae nodded. "Indeed."
She had never been inside the library. Only monks and priests would go here, not maidens of sword and shield. Gloriae had always imagined some dusty chamber full of moldy parchments. What she saw spun her head. Rows and rows of shelves lined the walls, rising all the way to the domed ceiling. Tens of thousands, maybe millions of books covered the shelves, all bound in leather. Gloriae's head spun. Dies Irae never read, but the old kings of Osanna must have loved the written word. She had never imagined so many books could exist.
"Look at the ceiling," Kyrie said, pointing with his dagger.
Gloriae raised her head, and a gasp fled her lips. That ceiling was painted with scenes of stars, clouds, and griffins. Filigree and jewels made the figures glitter.
One part of the ceiling was chipped away. It looked like somebody had painstakingly chiseled at the artwork, as if to efface a scene. The chisel-work resembled the shape of a dragon.
"A Vir Requis was once painted there," Gloriae said. "I'd bet anything. Dies Irae must have ordered it chiseled off, but you can still see the shape."
"I'd like to chisel something of his off," Kyrie muttered. He shook his head, as if to clear it. "So, Gloriae my dear. How in the name of the Draco stars are we going to read all these books?"
She looked at him, placed her hands on her hips, and raised an eyebrow. "Never learned how to read, little boy?"
He groaned. "I can read faster than you."
She gave him a crooked smile. "You're on."
They began attacking the books, and soon realized the shelves were organized by category. One shelf was devoted to herbalism; they felt that shelf safe to ignore. Same for the shelf on astrology and theology. That left an entire wall of books on history, magical creatures, black magic, and warfare. Gloriae figured that information on nightshades might exist in one or all of these sections.
"I'll search the magical creatures shelves," she said to Kyrie. "You peruse the history section; there might be books about how the nightshades were sealed."
Kyrie nodded. They began pulling down books, opening them on the floor, and turning the pages. The books were heavy, ancient tomes, two feet long and often ten inches thick. Bound in leather, their pages sported delicate calligraphy. The scribes had treated these codexes as works of art not inferior to the ceiling. Every letter was a masterpiece, and every page featured colorful illustrations.
"Look at this book," Kyrie said. He sat cross-legged beside her, frowning into a dusty tome. "It's called Early Kings of Osanna by a monk named Lodinium." He scratched his chin. "Somebody's tampered with this book."
"What do you mean?" Gloriae asked. She looked up from a book called Elder Beasts, which was open to an illustration of a warty roc.
He pushed the book closer to her and sat beside her. "Take a look at this. See these pages at the front? They're frail, tattered, crumbling. Now look. Around the middle of the book, the pages are new. This parchment isn't ten years old, I'd wager."
Sitting on her knees, Gloriae leaned down and scrutinized the book. Kyrie was right. Some pages looked a thousand years old, the others new. "Could it be the author, this Lodinium, added older pages into his book?"
Kyrie shook his head. "No. The binding is old too. It's falling apart. And Lodinium lived over seven-hundred years ago; his date of birth appears on the first page." He looked up at her over the pages. "Somebody changed this book. Recently."
"Why would anyone do that?" Gloriae asked.
Kyrie shrugged. "I reckon there was information they didn't want people to find. Here, look. The first pages tell of Osanna's early days, before there were kings. There were just ten tribes here then. Look how old these pages are—tattered with faded ink. Now look." Kyrie flipped the pages. "Just around the time the first king is crowned...."
"New pages," Gloriae whispered. The parchment was flawless, the ink dark and clear. The handwriting was different too. She read aloud. "In the year 606, Taras Irae built the Ivory Throne of Osanna, and founded the Irae dynasty. The old tribes united under his wise rule." She flipped more pages, tracing the ancestry of the kings. They led from Taras Irae, to Theron Irae, and to many more kings, until finally the last page featured Dies Irae. She looked back to Kyrie and shrugged. "So what? I know this story already. I had to study the Irae dynasty as a child; I myself am... was heir to it."
Kyrie snorted so loudly, it blew dust off the pages. "Don't you get it, Gloriae? Dies Irae, the man who claims to be your father, is the first emperor of his line. I mean, the man's a Vir Requis. Sure, he lacks the magic. He can't shift into a dragon. But he's still from Requiem. He's still Benedictus's brother. He killed Osanna's old kings and only pretends to be her son."
Gloriae understood. "He doesn't want people to know he's Vir Requis. Of course. He hates the Vir Requis. He wants people to think his family has always ruled here." She slammed the book shut. "The bastard rewrote history."
"Or threatened the scribes to rewrite it, to be more exact," Kyrie said grimly. He shoved the book aside. "Early Kings of Osanna is useless now. Let's keep looking."
Kyrie drew another book off a shelf, and Gloriae returned to Elder Beasts, which still lay open on the floor. As she flipped the pages, searching for nightshades, she noticed oddities with this codex too. There were no replaced pages, but some existing pages seemed modified. When she reached a page featuring the Vir Requis, she narrowed her eyes and leaned down, so that her nose almost touched the parchment.
Gloriae gasped. Some words had been scraped off, it seemed. The parchment was thinner and rougher here. New words, their ink deeper, overwrote the old ones.
The weredragons are hideous beasts, the book read. But it seemed like the words "weredragons" and "hideous" were new, replacing older words, which had been scraped off. For all Gloriae knew, it could have once read, The Vir Requis are noble beasts.
She read the next line. They murdered the sons and daughters of Osanna, and destroyed their halls. Only it seemed like "murdered" and "destroyed" were new words. When Gloriae leaned close and squinted, she could see scratches where the older words had been effaced.
Meanwhile, an entirely new sentence was scrawled in the bottom margin. The ink was darker, the calligraphy similar but not identical. Dies Irae, noble king of Osanna, defeated the weredragons and banished their darkness from his kingdom of light.
"Well," Gloriae said, pushing the book aside in disgust, "Elder Beasts is useless too. Dies Irae rewrote this one too."
Kyrie groaned. "Stars. Will we find nothing useful here? Was the whole library rewritten to glorify Irae?"
Gloriae sighed. "The entire city was remade to glorify him. Maybe the entire empire. What's one library? But let's keep looking. We've come all the way here. I don't want to give up yet."
The afternoon sun cast long shadows into the library. They found candles between the shelves, lit them on the floor, and rummaged for new books. In every book, they found similar alterations. Some books had pages torn out. Others had new pages sewn in. Some were like Elder Beasts; their original pages still existed, but somebody had carefully scraped away some words, then replaced them with others. Gloriae and Kyrie read all afternoon, but found nothing about nightshades. The entire library painted a picture of a heroic Dies Irae, the defeater of weredragons, a noble hero whose line had ruled Osanna for two thousand years.
Finally Kyrie tossed aside a book in disgust. It crashed into a corner, raising a shower of dust. "Great," he said. "Just great. You know, that Dies Irae of yours is a real griffin's backside."
Gloriae scrunched her lips and stared at the Magical Creatures shelves. She tapped her fingers against her thigh. "He is, but we can still find information here."
Kyrie clutched his head. "How? We can't trust anything these books say. Even if we do find a book about nightshades, what's the use? It would probably just tell us that Dies Irae, ten feet tall with muscles of steel, single-handedly tamed the nightshades over breakfast, using nothing but his butter knife."
Gloriae allowed herself a small smile. "Funny, Kyrie. But one can still read between the lines."
They searched the books until they found one called Mythic Creatures of the Gray Age. Gloriae wasn't sure what the Gray Age was, but she was certain it was not during Dies Irae's reign; his reign was nothing but white, gold, and blood red.
"Let's try this one," Gloriae said. She opened the book and began reading.
This book, like the others, had been modified. For the first time, however, Gloriae found a chapter speaking of nightshades.
"Look, Kyrie!" she said. She grabbed his arm and pulled him over. They leaned over the book. On the parchment, a drawing of three nightshades stared up at them. The artist had skillfully captured the smokiness of their bodies, and the glint in their burning eyes. Bodies were drawn beneath them, mouths open, eyes blank, limbs limp.
"Those are our boys, all right," Kyrie said.
Calligraphy appeared on the opposite page. The text wasn't far off from what Kyrie had imagined. It didn't quite speak of Dies Irae taming the nightshades with a butter knife, but it did describe a fictional ancestor of his—Lir Irae—taming the nightshades with something called "The Beams".
Gloriae frowned over the calligraphy. "See here, Kyrie. Some of these words are old—the original text. Others are new."
In some areas, the ink looked old, cracked, fading. In other places, bits of parchment had been scraped clean, and new letters appeared here. These letters weren't as cracked and faded. It was truly a masterwork; Gloriae had to turn the pages in the light, squint, and touch the parchment to distinguish the old words from the new.
"This part about these Beams is the original text," Kyrie said. "But what are they?"
"Great rays of light, it seems," Gloriae said. They turned the page to see another illustration. It showed a man holding something—what, they could not see, for drops of ink had fallen there, obscuring the drawing. Whatever the man held, a ray of light shot out from it, and seemed to slay a nightshade. The hero's original face had been scraped away, and replaced with a face that resembled that of Dies Irae's.
"Great!" Kyrie said. He rose to his feet. "So all we need to do is find these Beams, and point them at the nightshades, and kill them. Seems easy enough. So where do we find them?"
Gloriae sighed. "That's the complicated part. Look what it says here. According to this text, the Sun God created the Beams. Which is utter nonsense. The Sun God didn't even exist back in those days; the religion is only a hundred years old. According to the cover, this book is a thousand years old."
"So who did make the Beams?" Kyrie asked. "If we can find whoever made them, they can make us new ones."
Gloriae groaned. "Think, Kyrie! The book is a thousand years old, remember? Whoever made the Beams must be long dead."
"Fine, fine! Well, does it say how to make new Beams?"
Gloriae glared at him. She wanted to throttle him. "I'm trying to read, but it's hard with you talking so much. Do shut up. Honestly, I don't know how my sister puts up with you."
Kyrie grumbled, but otherwise remained silent and let her read. Mythic Creatures of the Gray Age spoke more about the nightshades and their powers, and offered gory illustrations of nightshades devouring people's severed heads, but didn't explain more about the Beams.
"The Beams are definitely the key," she muttered. "It speaks of them again here." She read aloud. "'Lir Irae rode against the nightshades, wielding the Beams of power, and he blinded the nightshades, and drove them into the Well of Night, and sealed them there.'" She scratched her cheek. "But it says nothing about who made the Beams, or how they're used."
She slammed the book shut, stood up, and went to the Black Magic section of the library. She climbed a ladder to the tallest, dustiest shelf. It lay cloaked in shadows and cobwebs. She blew the dust away, brushed the cobwebs aside, and rummaged through the shadows. Soon she found an ancient codex, bound in red leather, titled Artifacts of Wizardry and Power.
She returned with the book to the floor by the window. The sunlight was fading outside. Soon it would be dark and the nightshades would emerge.
"We better hurry," Kyrie said, looking out the window. He clutched his dagger.
"I know, Kyrie. One last book." Gloriae opened Artifacts of Wizardry and Power on the floor, blew more dust away, and began reading. The first chapter spoke of glowing "Animating Stones", which could let statues, suits of armor, and even corpses walk. The second chapter was titled "Summoning Stick"; it showed a golden candlestick decorated with emeralds, which when lit could summon others to aid. The third chapter described the Griffin Heart—"we already know about that one," Gloriae muttered—and the fourth chapter made her gasp and slap the page.
"Here," she said. "The Beams. We found what we need."
Kyrie turned from the window, face pale. "Great, Gloriae. But I think reading time is over."
Outside, the nightshades screeched. Night had fallen.
Gloriae tucked Artifacts of Wizardry and Power under her arm, then looked around.
"Where can we hide here?" she whispered. Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the library.
"The fireplace," Kyrie suggested and pointed. "You'd reckon nightshades would hate fireplaces. Firelight and all."
Gloriae considered. If cornered, they'd be stuck there. Then the nightshades screamed closer, and she saw them swirling outside the window, and she nodded.
They raced to the fireplace and climbed inside. The chimney led into darkness above, two feet wide.
"Into the chimney," she whispered. "Side by side. We'll be hidden there."
She and Kyrie wiggled into the chimney. Soot covered Gloriae's white robes, filled her hair, and tickled her nostrils. Kyrie coughed beside her, pressed against her, and she elbowed him.
"Shh!" she whispered. "No coughing. And keep your feet inside the chimney. They're dangling into the hearth."
He grumbled and pulled his feet up. It was a tight squeeze. Gloriae's back was flat against the chimney bricks. She was pressed against Kyrie, his nose against her cheek, his breath against her mouth.
"Gloriae," he whispered.
"Shh!" She elbowed his stomach—hard—and he grunted and fell silent. Artifacts of Wizardry and Power almost slipped from under her arm, and she tightened her grip on it.
For a moment there was silence. Then Gloriae heard the library doors swing open, and the nightshades swarmed in.
Their shadows danced even inside the chimney. The candles she and Kyrie had lit blew out, leaving them in darkness. The nightshades screamed, the sound echoing in the chimney, making them wince. Gloriae shut her eyes and prayed to the Sun God to save her... though she suspected the book under her arm would provide more succor.
Kyrie slipped an inch.
His foot dangled into the hearth.
The nightshades froze, then shrieked so loudly, the library shook. Gloriae heard books fall off the shelves.
She grabbed Kyrie and pulled him up. The nightshades howled and swirled.
"Climb!" she whispered to Kyrie. "Quickly."
They scurried up the chimney, wriggling into the darkness.
A nightshade's head emerged into the fireplace beneath them.
Gloriae froze. Were they high enough? Were they dark enough?
She peeked down. The nightshade's head was huge; it filled the fireplace. It looked left, right, and then up into the darkness. Its glittering eyes narrowed, as if it tried to peer into the shadows.
It can't see us, Gloriae thought. It may hate light, but it needs some light to see.
The nightshade began to sniff. Its head wasn't solid, merely wisps of darkness and stars, but it seemed to have nostrils. Gloriae scratched the chimney wall, so that ash fell down the chimney. The nightshade sniffed the ash, snorted, and shook its head wildly.
It left the fireplace.
Gloriae and Kyrie breathed out shakily. They dared not speak or move, not until the nightshades gave a final screech, swirled, and seemed to leave the library. Finally, when they were sure the library was empty, they crawled back into the fireplace and onto the floor.
Nightshades still swirled and screeched outside, but the library seemed safe for now.
"I'd wager they do a nightly patrol," Kyrie said, "scanning the buildings they haven't toppled yet. That's probably why we found no people in the library. Nobody wants to hide here, not if the nightshades come here at night."
Gloriae nodded. "I hope they only scan the place once a night. We better stay near the fireplace, just in case we have to scurry in again. And this time please do not cough in my face, Kyrie."
He bristled. "Well, don't elbow my stomach. I don't wear a breastplate like you do, and your elbows are bonier than a skeleton's backside."
Gloriae lit one candle—she would risk no more light—and sat cross-legged at the hearth. She opened Artifacts of Wizardry and Power, flipped to the chapter on the Beams, and sighed.
"Wonderful," she said. "We finally find the right book, and Dies Irae modified this one too."
In the candlelight, she could see that more words had been effaced, new words replacing them. She read out loud. "'Lir Irae prayed to his father, the Sun God, for light to tame the nightshades. The Sun God, of infinite wisdom and power, created the Beams and filled them with his light and fire, so that Lir Irae might tame the nightshades in his name.'" She scrunched her lips and pointed at words. "'Lir Irae' is new; there used to be another name written here. The stuff about the Sun God is also new. But some of these words, such as 'created the Beams' and 'tame the nightshades', are the original text. You can see how the parchment is thicker, and the ink more faded."
"So let's get this straight," Kyrie said. "We've spent hours in this library, and what have we learned? That thousands of years ago, somebody used something to tame the nightshades." He groaned. "Gloriae, we knew all this already."
She glared at him. "Not something. We learned we must seek the Beams. We know there is an artifact that can help us, or was one. We know somebody created it, and it wasn't the Sun God."
Kyrie sighed. He looked out the window at the nightshades that still swirled outside. "We'll learn nothing more here. Let's get some sleep, Gloriae. We'll head to Fidelium Mountains tomorrow, and see if the others learned anything better."
Gloriae sighed too and closed the book. "All right, Kyrie. Good night."
They huddled into the fireplace, under the chimney should they need to climb, and Kyrie took first watch. Gloriae leaned against the cold bricks, but could find no rest. She was cold, and the bricks hurt her head. Finally, silently, she shifted so that her head lay against Kyrie's shoulder, and so his arm draped over her. She did this as if in sleep, so he wouldn't object. She heard him sigh, but he let her nestle against him. His body was warm, and Gloriae felt safe against him.
Visions of sunrise over clouds filled her mind, and the flapping of wings, and Gloriae slept.