Requiem's Prayer (Book 3) Page 12

  "That girl is a queen now." Her eyes flashed. "Never call me a girl again. I am no longer the girl you knew, the girl you fell in love with, the girl you thought you could protect, that you could save." Her cheeks reddened. "I am Queen Issari Seran. I am the Priestess in White. I am the Lady of Eteer and Goshar. I am a savior to these people." She gestured at the rolling camp. "Saving dragons? Yes, Tanin. I saved dragons. I saved them in Eteer and in Goshar, and I will travel the great lands of Terra, city to city, saving whoever I can, uniting them under my banner." She raised her chin. "That is my task. Not in the north."

  Tanin blinked. "By the stars . . . Issari!" He tried again to embrace her, but she squirmed away. "Issari, please. You're not some . . . some messiah, some savior, some prophet. You're . . . you're my Issari. My girl. My—"

  "I told you." Her eyes blazed and she shoved him away. "Do not call me that. A savior? Yes, I am a savior. A messiah? A prophet?" She raised her voice to a shout, and she raised her palm, letting her amulet shine. "I am a daughter of Taal! I am bound to his light."

  That light blazed out, washing over Tanin.

  He shouted and fell to his knees.

  The light burned him, searing his skin, driving into his eyeballs and through his veins, and—

  She closed her fist, hiding the glow. She stared at him in shock, lips trembling, then spun and fled back into the tent.

  Tanin remained on his knees on the hill, breathing raggedly. He stared at the closed tent door.

  "Who are you?" he whispered.

  He thought back to the Issari he had first met in the streets of Eteer—a kind, determined young woman, soft-spoken but strong. The woman he loved. The woman he had made love to on the beach. The woman who had become something more, become a figure too great, too distant, too wreathed in light for him to reach.

  He looked to the north. Beyond the smoking ruin of Goshar, the desert, the sea, and the forests, lay the fallen Requiem and his family. He looked back toward the tent. The simple canvas wall suddenly seemed as great a distance as the northern wilderness, and beyond it lay Issari, a woman he loved and perhaps had lost.

  He stood, torn, as the sun set beyond the horizon.

  ISSARI

  "What have I done?"

  Issari stepped around the table and toward her bed. She knelt by the bedside, her breath ragged, and looked at the amulet embedded into her palm. Its glow had subsided with her anger. That hand now trembled.

  "Who am I?" she whispered.

  A priestess, a voice answered inside her. Was that the voice of Taal?

  A queen, spoke another voice. Was it the voice of Eteer's children calling to her?

  A Vir Requis, spoke yet another voice. Was it the voice of the Draco constellations?

  A woman in love, said another voice. Was this Tanin speaking in her mind?

  "I don't know." She lowered her head and tasted her tears. "I don't know who I am. I don't know who I should become."

  Tanin saw her becoming some mythical figure, a savior, a messiah. He feared her. She had seen the fear in his eyes. And Issari feared herself, feared what she was turning into, no longer a mere princess but a figure of . . . of what? Of legend? Of piety or mythology? A woman who could destroy empires, raise nations, vanquish hosts of darkness? Perhaps her people saw her that way—the children of Eteer and Goshar. Perhaps Taal saw her that way, for he had blessed her with his amulet. Perhaps the Draco stars saw such greatness in her, for they had blessed her with their magic only last year.

  "I'm scared," she whispered into her fist. "I'm scared, Taal. I'm scared, stars of Requiem. Myriads of people worship me; they call me the Lady in White, the Starkissed Queen, the Bane of Demons, the Light of the Gods, the Daughter of Shahazar, and many other names. But I'm only Issari, and I'm frightened, and I don't know what to do. Where do I go?"

  A part of her longed to heed Tanin's advice, to fly north, to find Laira and the others and help them with their struggle. Yet how could she abandon the people of the south? How could she forsake all these lost souls in her camp? How could she fly north when other Vir Requis might be hiding in the south, needing to hear her roar, to see her wings upon the wind?

  Perhaps that part of her wanted to be what she had railed against—a girl again. To be as she had been—an innocent child, following others. Following her father. Following King Aeternum of Requiem. Even following Tanin.

  There's less fear when you follow another. To lead is to always feel fear and doubt, not only for yourself but for those who follow you, who seek comfort in your strength . . . strength you feel cracking in the night, whose fragility you hide like a mother might hide an illness from her children. She took a shuddering breath. And I am as a mother to the people outside my tent. Though I'm afraid, I must be strong for them, and I must lead them as others have led me.

  The tent door rustled behind her. She turned to see Tanin walk inside.

  Issari rose to her feet. "Tanin," she began, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to become angry, to hurt you, I—"

  He approached her and grabbed her arms. He stared down into her eyes, silent.

  "Tanin?" she whispered.

  He kissed her.

  He had kissed her many times before, but this was something rougher, deeper, ablaze with passion. He placed a hand on the small of her back and pulled her body against him, and still he kept kissing her. Issari's legs loosened. His arms wrapped around her, holding her close, and for the first time in many days, she felt soft, she felt a loss of control, no longer that cold, hard leader.

  "Tanin," she breathed. "I guess that means you forgive me?"

  She felt his manhood harden against her belly, and he ran his fingers along her back, from her nape down to her tailbone and up again. He kissed her again, then all but shoved her onto the bed.

  "Tanin!" She gasped up at him. "Now it's like I don't know you. What—?"

  She gasped as he grabbed her tunic and tore it off. His clothes came off next, and he stared at her, silent and naked, then gently pressed her down onto her back.

  He made love to her then, but he was not his old gentle self. He took her, claimed her, almost roughly, thrusting into her again and again, and she gasped and moaned, and it felt good, maybe better than any other time he had loved her. She surrendered to him, to his expert hands, and she was helpless in those hands. All she could do was let him take her, and the pleasure of it tore across her and she cried out into his palm.

  "Oh, Tanin," she whispered when they finally broke apart. She lay by his side, sweaty and panting, aching with goodness and relief. "You definitely forgive me." She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "I'm glad you came back. I love you." She looked deep into his eyes. "I truly love you. I—"

  She squinted.

  She leaned back and gasped.

  His eyes were as windows, showing deep caverns full of coiling flames. Dead eyes. Demon eyes.

  He sat up in bed. He slowly turned his head toward her, his spine creaking. When he opened his mouth, she saw that instead of teeth he had small, metal shards growing from his gums.

  Issari screamed and leaped away.

  Tanin rose from the bed, only it wasn’t actually Tanin. The stranger's jaw unhinged, dropping halfway down his chest, revealing rows of those metal teeth. His eyes burst into flames. Hooks and horns sprouted across his body.

  Taal. Oh Taal . . .

  Issari raised her amulet and cast her light. "I banish you, demon of the Abyss!"

  Inside she trembled. Oh Taal, it made love to me . . . it cast its seed inside me . . .

  "Be gone, demon!" she shouted, eyes burning.

  Her light crashed into the creature, but the demon only laughed. Smoke burst from its body, and it changed forms rapidly, shifting into a dripping slug, a scaly reptile, a twitching centipede ten feet tall, and then took familiar forms: a dying girl with entrails dangling, the one Issari had comforted in the north; Sena, her dear brother, hanging dead from a tree; and finally Laira, sweet Laira, sliced open as her insides spill
ed out.

  "No!" Issari screamed. "Stop this! Leave! I am a Priestess of Taal and of Draco, I—"

  "You cannot banish me." The demon laughed, still in Laira's form. "I am no lowly demon. I am not Angel, a daughter of Taal whom you can burn." The demon raised dripping red hands. "I am Sharael, the Deceiver. I met your father, Issari . . . and I made him a vow." The demon licked its chops with a dripping, translucent tongue. "I vowed to make you, his dear daughter, suffer. Enjoy my gift to you."

  Issari leaped toward him, prepared to shove her blazing amulet against his head.

  With a ripple in the air and a swirl of shadow, the demon vanished.

  Issari spun from side to side, trembling, panting, barely able to breathe. Cold sweat washed her.

  Oh Taal . . .

  She reached for her water basin and almost knocked it over. With shaking hands, she drew water and splashed it between her legs, desperate to wash him off, to cleanse herself, and her heart beat madly and blackness spread across her eyes. She felt ready to faint, to collapse.

  Breathe.

  She drew a shaky breath.

  Exhale.

  She blew out the air.

  Be strong. Be a leader.

  She doubled over, and she fell to her knees, and she was sorry, she was so sorry, and she missed him.

  "Come back to me, Tanin. I'm so afraid." She raised her voice to a hoarse cry. "Tanin!"

  She opened her palm and stared at the amulet. It was cold and hard and emitted no light.

  LAIRA

  The sun rose and fell. Rain washed the world. For days they lingered, tied to the boulder in the valley of the Cured. For days they watched the sun and moon and stars, the grass swaying, the inuksuks upon the hills sending their shadows across the valley.

  "Drink," Auberon said every day, offering them the jug.

  Laira always shook her head. Maev always cursed and spat and thrashed.

  "I will not force you," Auberon said, "for you must choose to be cured. I will return tomorrow."

  The days went by.

  They remained upon the boulder, the rain washing them, the sun baking them, the wind cutting into their skin.

  On the sixth dawn, vultures began to circle above.

  "We're going to die here," Maev said, voice hoarse.

  Laira shook her head. "The druids will keep us alive. They offer us food and water." She sighed. "We'll grow old upon this boulder until we drink their elixir."

  Maev managed to growl. "I won't grow old here. I'd sooner die."

  As the sun rose, the druids emerged as always from their huts. They chanted in the valley, spears raised, praying to the inuksuks upon the hills. They tended to their campfires. They traveled into the forests to return with nuts and berries. And like every dawn, Auberon walked toward them.

  As always, the old man wore his blue robes, the hems stained green from the grass. As always, mist floated around his feet, and the charms hanging from his staff chinked. As always, he held two vessels—one bowl of stew, one goblet full of the green elixir.

  "Eat," he said, offering the clay bowl to Laira.

  The smell of stew tickled her nostrils. Today the stew was thick with wild hare, mushrooms, and onions. She wanted to refuse him. She wanted to spit the meal at his face. But Laira's belly rumbled and her mouth watered, and she guzzled down half the bowl.

  "Drink," Auberon said next, offering Laira the goblet. The tillvine swirled within, green like her eyes. "Drink and be cured."

  She shook her head. "This drink I refuse. This is poison." She looked aside. "I will not drink."

  Auberon nodded. "In time, you will learn that you are cursed. In time, you will join us, the Cured, and become one of our fellowship. I will pray for you, Laira."

  Next the elderly druid turned toward Maev. He offered her the remaining stew.

  Tied to the boulder, her limbs stretched out, Maev glowered.

  "Eat," Auberon said, holding the bowl to her lips.

  Maev swung her head, knocking the bowl aside, and spat on Auberon's face.

  "Go rot in the Abyss, you wormy pile of buzzard dung." Maev snapped her teeth. "Try to feed me again and I'll bite your damn hand off."

  Laira sighed. Maev had been refusing her meals for two days now.

  And we might be here for a very long time.

  "Maev, you should eat," Laira said.

  The young woman glowered at Laira. "I'd sooner eat demon flesh. I'd rather starve to death than eat anything these goat-shaggers are cooking. Could be damn tillvine in the stew too."

  Old Auberon wiped her spit off his face and shook his head. "The Cured Druids believe in honor, in truth. We would never deceive you. The true cure, our gods teach, must be voluntary, must come from within. You must willingly choose our elixir." He held the goblet up to Maev's lips. "Drink, daughter. Drink and—"

  "Get shagged!" Maev shouted. She swung her head, trying to knock the goblet over, but Auberon pulled the vessel aside.

  The old druid nodded. "I will return at dusk. I will pray for you, my daughters."

  "Pray to save your arse once I'm free, bastard!" Maev shouted after him, thrashing in her bonds.

  The old druid wandered off into his hut—a mere grassy mound with a stone archway for a door.

  Laira turned to look at the struggling Maev. Her wrists and ankles were chafed and bleeding.

  "You shouldn't struggle," Laira said. "You're only causing the vines to cut you. And you should eat. You need your strength."

  Maev went limp and dropped her chin to her chest. She gazed at Laira between strands of scraggly hair. "For what? What do I need strength for anymore? Look at us, Laira. We defeated tribal warriors, rocs, demons, a southern king . . . to end up here. Tied up by a bunch of old druids." She snorted, blowing back a lock of hair. "Not quite the heroic death I imagined for myself."

  Laira frowned. "We're not going to die here."

  "I am." Maev sighed and her lips curled bitterly. "I'm not eating anymore of their food. Sooner or later I'll die here—maybe in a day, maybe in two, maybe three. If I don't eat or drink, it'll come." She raised her chin. "Live free or die. I will not linger here, tied to the boulder. And I will not drink their poison. I'd rather starve to death than lose my magic." She smiled wryly. "Funny. I always imagined my death would be in battle—fighting against the enemies of Requiem. But I'm glad, Laira. I'm glad because this means I'll die beside you." Her eyes watered. "And I love you, Laira. I love you as family, as a sister in arms, as a dragon."

  Laira looked over the misty hills, the grassy valley, and the distant druids who were tending to their herb gardens. "I never imagined I'd end up like this either." Laira's voice was soft. "I always thought it would be Zerra who'd kill me—the Chieftain of Goldtusk. Whenever he beat me, I thought that I would die. I think I did come close to dying some of those times. When Grizzly found me, I was almost dead. I was burnt, cut, bruised, battered . . . every inch of me was covered with wounds. I weighed less than a leaf on the wind, and my mind was a storm. But I survived. I do not believe our journey ends here, Maev. Grizzly taught me that there's always hope. Always. Even when things seem darkest, so long as you breathe, so long as you can take that next breath, you can hope. And you can fight. We've overcome hunters, rocs, demons. We'll survive a few druids."

  "Laira?" Maev said. "I'm . . . not quite sure you're right." She winced. "Not with sphinxes around."

  Laira frowned. "What . . ." She looked up and felt the blood drain from her face.

  Oh stars . . .

  She raised her voice to a shout. "Sphinxes!" Laira tugged at her bonds. "Auberon! Druids! Sphinxes attack!"

  The beasts shrieked among the clouds; Laira counted seven of them. The circling vultures fled. The sphinxes' stench wafted down—a stench of acid and stale urine and sulfur. The wind ruffled the fur on their lion bodies, and their human faces—bloated to an obscene size as if waterlogged—opened to reveal their teeth.

  "Druids!" Laira shouted, tugging madly at her bonds. At
her side, Maev was trying to shift, but whenever green scales flowed across her they vanished as the tillvine strands squeezed her.

  Druids emerged from their huts, raced to the center of the valley, and pointed at the flying sphinxes. A few knelt and began to pray.

  "Auberon, release us!" Laira shouted. "Release us or they'll kill us all!"

  The bearded old druid emerged from his hut, gazed at the sphinxes that circled above, and raised his staff. His voice echoed across the valley.

  "The sky gods visit us!" He shook his staff, letting its charms jingle. "Brothers and sisters, great blessed beings of the sky come to—"

  The sphinxes shrieked, swooped, and blew blasts of foul smoke.

  Laira winced. "Don't breath it, Maev!"

  The smoke blasted across the valley, fetid and gray, full of specks—demonic grubs with human faces. Laira screwed her mouth shut and closed her eyes. She felt the tiny creatures land upon her, and she shook her head wildly, struggling to dislodge them. The smoke seared her skin, and her eyes—even when closed—watered and burned. Sickness rose in her throat. She struggled not to gag, and the stew churned in her belly. She felt the tiny demons patter across her, squirm along her skin, her lips, her eyelids, seeking a way into her body. Their voices chattered, calling to her, calling her name. She kept shaking her head wildly, knocking them off like a wolf shaking off droplets of water.

  When finally she no longer felt the demons, and the heat wafted away, she opened her eyes and gulped down air.

  Several druids lay dead in the valley, their faces bloated, their eyes and mouths leaking blood—victims of the unholy miasma. As Laira thrashed in her bonds, she watched the sphinxes land upon three living druids, drive down their claws, and tear the men apart. Blood spilled across the grass.