A Dawn of Dragonfire

MORI



She stood in the corner, hugging herself, and listened to the adults argue. Elethor had returned with the news: They had until dawn to surrender. Everyone seemed to have an opinion, which they were shouting. Bayrin Eleison, who would tug her pigtails in childhood, shouted that he'd charge through the Tirans and kill Solina himself. Lord Deramon grumbled that surrender might be the only option they had. Others stood around them—the Lady Lyana, a priest, two wounded lords, a group of guards—calling for war, for prayer, or for surrender.

Only Mori was silent. She stood in the back, cloaked in shadows, and dared not speak. She worried that if she opened her mouth, her voice would tremble, and tears would fill her eyes. An iciness lived in her belly, twisting and growing. Her shame still ached, a deep pain she worried would never leave her.

She remembered his tongue, a wet serpent, licking her cheek. She remembered his stale breath, his hands crushing her, his body above her, her mouse dying under her chest. She remembered the pain, and she closed her eyes and forced herself to take deep breaths. Before, in the battle, she had found no time for shame. Now it flooded her.

"Stars, I've heard enough!" Bayrin shouted, so loud that Mori's ears ached. "You can't be serious, Father. To let Elethor go with this… this creature of fire back to her lair?"

Lord Deramon was glaring at everyone and everything. "How do you suggest we fight the phoenixes? Dragonfire only feeds them. Claws cannot cut them. Even if we could stop them from entering the tunnels, we'd eventually die of starvation and thirst."

Bayrin crossed his arms. "Our water reservoirs and our silos are here underground. We have enough to last all winter."

"And what then?" Lady Lyana interjected, clutching her sword so tightly her knuckles were white. "Will you have us linger underground all winter, only to starve in spring? That's assuming we can even hold back the Tirans that long."

For a moment everyone shouted together, and Mori felt like a mouse herself, a small thing that made its home in shadows, unseen and frightened. She looked at her brother Elethor. He stood between her and the others, eyes dark. Only he seemed to notice Mori; he looked toward her, and his eyes softened. His chest rose and fell, and such sadness seemed to fill him that Mori wanted to embrace him.

Our father is dead. Our older brother is dead. Elethor and I are all that's left of our family. We're all we have. Tears filled her eyes and her lip trembled.

"What do you think, Mori?" he asked softly, his voice barely heard over the shouts of the others. It was not a plea for advice, she knew. Elethor was not asking for help. What he was really asking was: How are you holding on?

She looked away. His eyes were too much like Orin's. Gazing into them hurt too much.

"I don't know," she whispered, and that pain between her legs flared, and the shame inside her cried to her, calling her a harlot, a disgrace, a soiled thing.

Bayrin, her brother's gangly oaf of a friend, laughed mirthlessly. "Finally, an honest one among us. The Princess Mori doesn't know what to do. Neither do I. Neither do any of us. At least the girl is honest." He guffawed; it sounded close to tears, close to panic, a last attempt at humor to hold back the horror. "So tell me, Mori, maybe you know this: Will we die from starvation, fire, or the thrusts of Tiran swords?"

Bayrin would always tug her braids in childhood, stuff frogs down her dress, and mock her mercilessly for having one finger too many. Today Mori missed the trickster Bayrin; the frightened and bitter Bayrin seemed infinitely worse. She clutched her hands behind her back, twisting her fingers. She felt her eleventh finger there, her luck finger, the plucky pinky itself as she sometimes called it. Bring me luck today, she thought.

"I need to learn more," she said softly. "About the Sun God. About this magic of phoenixes." She turned and began walking away. "I'll visit the library; it's not far from here. I'll learn what I can and return."

She felt their eyes on her back. Their argument died, and an odd silence filled the tunnels. The wounded lay around her feet, moaning and clutching wounds. Other survivors stood along the walls, rows of them leading into the darkness below. These tunnels delved deep, Mori knew, eventually leading to the Abyss itself, a realm of hidden horrors.

She heard her brother speak softly behind her. "Mori. Mori, are you all right?"

What could she tell him? A man with yellow teeth and a white tongue broke me, Elethor. He shoved my legs open and thrust himself inside me, and I'm a princess of Requiem, a daughter of starlight, but I cried like a child and could not fight him. I could not even kill him. I watched my brother tortured to death, and my father is gone, and I'm so scared, and I'm so hurt, and I can't get rid of this iceberg inside my belly. She smiled bitterly and said nothing. She kept walking, leaving them all behind, and plunged deep into the tunnels of Requiem.

The craggy stairs led to a rough, sloping tunnel. Candles filled alcoves in the walls, their wax dripping like the faces of burnt men. These tunnels wound for miles under Requiem, Mori knew; she would often explore them as a child. The great elders of Requiem had placed their scrolls here underground. The legendary King Benedictus had fought the Destroyer, Dies Irae, in these tunnels. And today once more Requiem's fate will be written here, she thought.

As she kept walking, she saw no end to the survivors. Hands reached out to her in the darkness. Mothers held crying children to their breasts. The elderly stared with teary eyes. Most people were burnt. Most whispered prayers to the Draco Constellation, the stars of Requiem.

"Our princess," they whispered, kneeling, tears in their eyes.

"Princess Mori, thank the stars."

"The stars bless you, our princess."

Their hands reached out, touching her, and she shivered. His hands touched me too, and his tongue, and… She closed her eyes, trembling.

One old woman began to chant the Old Words, the whispers of Requiem since time immemorial. The others whispered with her, their voices chanting together, and Mori added her voice to the song.

"As the leaves fall upon our marble tiles, as the breeze rustles the birches beyond our columns, as the sun gilds the mountains above our halls—know, young child of the woods, you are home, you are home." Tears filled Mori's eyes, the holy words soothing her. "Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."

She looked above her and saw only cold stone. She had never understood the meaning of those words until now, trapped under rock and grief. Requiem. May I find your sky again.

She walked for a long time, hugging herself, passing by silos, pantries, wine cellars, and reservoirs. Sunrise couldn't be more than two hours away. I must find a way to defeat the phoenixes before then… or we'll have to surrender and live forever under the bane of Solina.

"And under his bane," she whispered, remembering his fingers gripping her. How many more times would he hurt her, if they could not defeat the Tirans? Would he claim her as his own, take her to his chambers, chain her and invade her every night?

"We must defeat them." Mori's lips trembled. "We must."

Soon she reached the Library of Requiem. Its doors rose tall above her, set into the stone walls of the tunnel. Mori carried the old, filigreed key around her neck on a chain. This library was ancient, and its books were priceless; each codex of parchment and leather was worth more than a chest of gold. Only the royal family bore the keys to this chamber of secrets. With trembling fingers, Mori unlocked the doors, stepped inside, and found herself in a world of books.

Thousands of years ago, before the Vir Requis had built columns of marble, they lived in these tunnels. Before they wrote books, they wrote upon scrolls of parchment and kept them here in alcoves, safe from the dangers of rain and snow and war. None of those original scrolls remained; they had all burned in the Great War three hundred years ago, when King Benedictus fought Dies Irae underground. But today the library was rebuilt, and new knowledge filled the alcoves and shelves that lined the walls. A hundred thousand books, leather-bound and beautiful, rose all around Mori.

It was a lot to read within two hours.

For the first time since the phoenixes had invaded Castellum Luna, Mori felt peace flow over her. There was some solace here, some goodness hidden from fire. So many hours of her childhood had been spent here. While Orin would go hunting with Father, and while Bayrin and Elethor were drinking in alehouses, Mori would come to this place. She had read her first book here at age five, and she kept returning every day for more. She would devour poems of epic adventure; codices full of delicate illustrations of birds; tomes of herbalism, astrology, history; and more. More than anything—the softness of her gowns, the beauty of Nova Vita's gardens, or the warmth of her quilt—Mori drew comfort from books. As she stood here today, a hurt and damaged woman, she could still feel that comfort, that wonder of childhood. Centuries of knowledge surrounded her. The wisdom of thousands of poets and philosophers filled this one place.

"It's the best place in the world," she whispered. "May today it bring us salvation."

She walked across the tiled floor, approached a ladder, and climbed to a high shelf. She ran her hand across the books, caressing their smoothed leather spines, and smiled softly. There is still some goodness in the world. She knew the library well; this shelf held her favorite books, ancient tomes about creatures and monsters of legend.

She remembered one book, a heavy codex her father had claimed was a thousand years old, and between its pages dwelled a hundred monsters. The book was so old, Father claimed that even the legendary Queen Gloriae had read it, and the book had been ancient then too. Mori had always feared that codex and never dared read it; when Father would try to read it to her, she would run and he would laugh softly.

He thought me scared of the monsters inside, Mori remembered. But it was not the monsters that would scare her; it was the book's age. So many generations had passed since its author scribed its words and pictures, so many ages of men who lived and fought and died. So many generations read the book, laughed, whispered, loved and hated. It was a thing of ghosts, of ancient life that spun Mori's head. But how could she have told Father that? So she had pretended to fear its pictures of griffins and serpents, and she would instead read poems of love and heroes.

Today she sought this old tome. Today was all about conquering fears. Would the book tell her of birds woven from fire? She let her fingers dance across the spines, and soon her fingertips rested upon a large codex wrapped in leather so old, the binding formed a landscape of crevices, canyons, and valleys. Words of gold crawled along the spine, written in the tongue of Osanna, the realm of men to the east. Mori did not read that ancient language well, but she knew enough to read these words. It was the book she sought: Mythical Creatures of the Gray Age.

Perhaps it was the fear inside her, or perhaps the solace of this place after the storm of battle, but Mori felt like the book's wisdom crept into her fingers, pulsed through her, whispered comfort into her soul. Smiling softly, she pulled the book off the shelf, and dust rained.

She blinked, coughed, and clung to the ladder. She struggled for long moments to pull the book free, stuff it under her arm, and hold it tight. The tome was large, over a foot long, and its spine was wider than her palm. Clinging to the ladder with one hand, Mori descended to the floor, placed the book down, and sat crossed-legged before it.

A digging pain thrust through her, and she closed her eyes. Her pulse quickened. His eyes blazed, and his lip curled, baring yellow teeth. His breath blasted her, scented of rot, and she screamed as he invaded her, hand around her throat, and she shook and wept and—

No. She forced her eyes open, forced herself to take slow breaths. Cold sweat drenched her, and slowly as she breathed, the flaring pain faded to a dull throb. She wiped tears from her eyes. Don't think of him, Mori, she told herself. Think of saving Elethor. He is the only family you have left. You must save him from Solina… and you must save yourself.

She leaned forward and blew dust off the book. It flew in a cloud, covering the tiles, and Mori sneezed. She opened the book, revealing crinkly pages of parchment. The first page sported an illustration of a griffin, and Mori shuddered, remembering the stories she'd heard of griffins attacking Requiem long ago. Small letters covered the page, written in the tongue of Osanna, speaking of the beasts. Mori began to leaf through the pages. The parchment was so old, she worried it would crumble in her hands. As the pages flipped, they revealed and hid creatures great and small: the mythical salvanae, true dragons of the west, who had no human forms; the nightshades, demons of smoke and shadow; the cruel mimics, undead warriors sewn from dismembered corpses; and even a page about the Vir Requis themselves, warriors of Requiem who could become dragons.

Mori laughed, eyes still stinging with tears. She didn't feel like a mythical creature, only a girl—scared, alone in darkness, seeking answers. She sniffed, knuckled her eyes, and flipped the page. Her eyes widened and her breath died.

"The phoenixes."

The page seemed to stare back at her, screaming from years beyond counting, and Mori hugged herself. The scribe had drawn an eagle woven of fire in red and orange, its claws outstretched, its beak wide, its eyes of fire incensed. Mori could imagine that she heard its shriek, and she shivered. The phoenix seemed to move upon the page; Mori almost saw its flames crackle, almost felt its heat. Suddenly she feared that the drawing could burn the book, that the phoenix could rise from the page and turn into Acribus, grab her and toss her over a table, and she would scream and her pain would never leave her. The fire and the screams engulfed her, and her head spun.

She gritted her teeth, clenched her fists, and closed her eyes. She forced herself to breathe deeply, like Mother Adia had taught her. She inhaled through her nose, slowly, counting to five, until she filled her lungs from top to bottom. She held her breath, counted to five again, and exhaled slowly. Hugging herself, Mori forced herself to keep breathing, again and again—into her lungs, into her limbs, into every part of her that trembled, until the fear passed. When she was ready, she opened her eyes again, and found that the book was silent and cold, the library only a place of shadows and solitude.

It's only a book, Mori, she told herself. It's only a drawing. It can't hurt you.

She leaned down so that her nose almost touched the parchment and squinted. The letters were old and small, faded in places, and Mori had never found it easy to read the tongue of Osanna. She mumbled to herself, reading aloud:

"In the days of Chaos, the lights of the heavens fought a great war, casting light and fire upon the earth. The Sun God, lord of heat and flame, birthed the phoenixes to champion his cause. Great birds of sunfire, they flew upon the earth, burning forests and boiling lakes, and men died between their talons. The stars, guardians of Requiem, and the moon, goddess of the northern children, held council and forged weapons to fight the Sun God. The stars granted their children a Starlit Demon, a creature of rock and light, a devourer of fire. The moon crafted a Moondisk of stone and light, and its beams could douse all sunfire. The Starlit Demon consumed the phoenixes, and the Moondisk stripped them of their fire, until the Sun God returned to the heavens, and peace reigned upon the earth."

Her fingers tingled, and Mori rose to her feet so fast, her head spun. Was this the answer? A Moondisk? A Starlit Demon? Those sounded like fairytales to her, no different from the stories of knights, princesses, and unicorns she'd read as a child. But Mori was a woman now, eighteen years old; she had watched fire rain upon the world, and she had watched her brother die, and she had lain with a man, and…

Tears stung her eyes, and she wrapped her arms around her stomach, and suddenly she was trembling so violently that the library spun around her. That is what had happened, she realized; for the first time, she fully understood what he had done. She had lain with a man, with the cruel lord with the white tongue, like the princesses with the knights in her stories. Did his child grow within her now, a demon babe with a white tongue, and yellow teeth, and fingernails that could cut her? She felt evil inside her, shame and filth, and she fell. She curled up, hugged her knees, and lowered her head. Her tears claimed her, and she could not stop seeing it—Orin burnt, his entrails spilling, and how he gazed at her as Acribus stifled her screams, thrusting inside her, grunting, and she had let him do it, she let him. She could not shift into a dragon, not in a chamber so small, not with him choking her… but she could have fought him somehow, and she hadn't. I let him do it. It's my fault. What kind of creature am I now?

"Mori," whispered a voice, and a hand touched her hair.

She screamed and cowered.

"No! Don't touch me, please, don't. Please…"

Through her tears, she saw a figure lean above her, and Mori was sure it was him again, come to hurt her, come to place a demon child inside her, but the voice that spoke again was soft, soothing.

"Mori, it's all right. It's me, Lyana. You're safe."

Mori blinked, still cowering on the ground, and saw a head of red curls, a freckled face, and soft green eyes. Lyana. My friend. Mori sniffed, rose to her knees, and found herself caught in Lyana's embrace. She held her friend close, her tears wetting Lyana's shoulder. She could not stop trembling.

"Hold me," she whispered. "Don't let me go."

Lyana held her tight and stroked her hair. Her friend's armor was cold against Mori's cheek, but she didn't care. Lyana was a great warrior—a real bellator, a member of Requiem's ancient order of knighthood. There were only a few bellators in the whole kingdom, Mori knew. More than anyone, Lyana could protect her, hold the horror at bay.

Growing up, Mori had always wanted to be like Lady Lyana. I've always been too thin, too frightened, Mori thought, a meek child running from shadows. Lyana was two years older, a heroine to Mori. While Mori was afraid of swords, Lyana was a deadly fencer. While Mori cowered from spiders, Lyana dreamed of slaying griffins and nightshades. While Mori could charm the lords of the court with her needlework and poetry, Lyana could discuss warfare, politics, and governing.

I've always wanted to be brave like you, Lyana, she thought, holding her friend tight. Especially now, give me some of your strength, some of your courage.

"I'm with you, Mori," Lyana whispered and kissed her forehead. "We're safe here underground, and I'll watch over you."

Mori looked up at her, eyes blurred with tears. "Do you promise?"

Lyana nodded. "I promise. No one will hurt you while I'm with you."

Unless they kill you, Mori thought. Unless they burn you, and gut you like a fish, and rape me as you lie dying.

She shivered, her insides throbbing, and pressed her cheek against Lyana's breastplate. She closed her eyes but only saw yellow teeth, a white tongue, and never-ending fire.