A Memory of Fire (The Dragon War, Book 3) (10 page)

But here... here on this
southern island shaped like a sleeping woman... here the dormant half
of her, her southern desert blood, blazed with waking fire.

"They're real, Scraggles,"
she whispered to her dog. "Stars, they survived. They live.
My people."

Thousands wandered the camp
around her. Erry had imagined Tirans to be short and scrawny like
her; she had always blamed her father's blood for her diminutive
frame. And yet they were a tall people, maybe even taller than Vir
Requis. Their hair shone a platinum so pale it was almost white.
Their eyes were blue as sapphires, their skin golden. Rune had once
shown her a painting of Tirans he kept hidden, and in that painting,
they wore golden armor and rode horses between palisades of columns.
Yet here around her, they lived as wild islanders, clad in leaves and
homespun; only a few of the elders still wore old, embroidered cotton
of the desert.

Erry wiped tears from her eyes.

"Damn it, Scraggles,"
she whispered, then knelt and hugged her dog. "We... we could
have been here with them. All those years I spent on the docks. All
that damn year in the Legions. All those cold, lonely, painful
nights in Requiem... and they were here. In sunlight. Happy.
Alive. I could have been here with them."

Scraggles licked the tears from
her cheeks.

Erry kept moving through the
camp. Elders sat upon logs, singing old songs about Tiranor: her
golden dunes, her lush oases of fig and palm trees, her fallen
temples of sandstone and platinum, and her wisdom lost. Children
scampered about, laughing, the sun shining upon their pale hair.
Young couples walked hand in hand, whispering and smiling secret
smiles. They were refugees. Their land had fallen. And yet still
they seemed to Erry happier than she herself had ever felt.

"Do you think they'd let me
live with them?" she asked Scraggles. She bit her lip and her
eyes still stung. "Or would I be an outcast here too?"

She was half Tiran, that was
true, but she looked Vir Requis. Her hair and eyes were brown, not
platinum and blue. She was scrawny and short, not tall and noble.
She spoke with the rough accent of Requiem's southern coast—odd
enough among northerners like Leresy, Kaelyn, and Valien—not the
flowing lilt of the desert.

"But I have this," she
whispered. "I have my father's medallion."

She pulled it from her pocket
and slung it around her neck. She had never dared wear her father's
memento in Requiem, not in that empire that had burned the desert and
hunted its people. Yet here she could wear it freely, and she
clutched the silver. The medallion was shaped like a sunburst,
symbol of Tiranor, and it had often comforted Erry during the long,
cold nights. Her father, a Tiran sailor, had paid for her mother
with this medallion, hiring her for a night of pleasure before
sailing back south. Some would see it as shameful—the cost of a
whore—but to Erry, the medallion had always brought hope. It had
always been a symbol of another world, a better place.

And
now I've found that place,
she thought, looking around the camp of sunlight, greenery, and noble
folk of her blood.

A young woman was climbing a fig
tree ahead. She was reaching for the fruit, but the figs hung just
beyond her grasp. When she saw Erry, the youth waved and cried out.

"Can you help me?"

Erry stepped closer, hesitant.
A life upon the docks had taught her to fear strangers; those who
asked for help often wanted more than she could give.

"What do you want?"
she said, approaching the fig tree. Could this girl somehow see her
Tiran blood, and would she mock her for it, call her a half-breed and
bastard?

"I need a push," the
girl said. "Please?"

She clung to the tree trunk,
several feet above the ground, straining to reach a branch heavy with
fruit. Yet far as she stretched, the branch remained an inch out of
reach.

Erry realized her belly was
rumbling. If she helped, perhaps the girl would share the prize.
She wove her fingers together, forming a little shelf with her hands,
and pushed up the girl's foot. The young Tiran snagged some fruit,
smiled, and hopped down to the ground.

"Thanks," she said and
grinned. Her teeth were very white in her golden face. Her long
hair was almost as white, a smooth flag that swayed in the breeze.
Her eyes seemed like sapphires to Erry, blue and bright.

"Now give me half of those
fruits," Erry said.

The girl laughed. "You
deserve them, fair enough. Come, eat with me." She reached out
her hand. "My name is Miya."

Erry stared at the oustretched
hand, not moving. So many times upon the docks, people had offered
her food, but they had always wanted something in return. So many
times, Erry had accepted an outreached hand, only to have that hand
beat her later. So many men had offered food and shelter for her
body. Leresy too had offered a smile and meal, only for him to later
use and strike her.

How
can I trust anyone?
Erry wondered.

As the girl's smile faded, Erry
lowered her head.

I
can't be the old Erry here,
she thought,
afraid and angry and hiding.
These
are Tirans. Their blood pumps through me. Miya is only a youth, not
a man who lusts for me. I'll have to be different here, or I'll
forever be the dock rat.

She reached out, grabbed Miya's
hand, and shook it.

"My name is Erry. Let's
eat."

They sat upon a flat boulder
under the shade of a pine. Wildflowers and fallen needles spread
around them. The hillside sloped down at their feet, leafy with mint
bushes, mulberry trees, and swaying wild oats. Far below, a golden
shore faded into the sea. For a moment, the two young women sat
silently, watching the waves and eating the figs.

"Is it true?" Miya
finally asked, breaking the silence. "Your leader, the man
Valien... he says he can defeat Frey." She looked over at Erry,
her eyes wide. "Do you believe him?"

Erry shrugged and took another
bite. She chewed for a moment, considering.

"I don't know. Sometimes I
think he's mad."

"And yet you fight with
him."

Erry allowed herself to laugh,
but her eyes stung. "Frey burned my home. And so I fight. I
have nowhere else to go. Can we win? I don't know. But fighting is
better than just lying down and dying."

As she spoke those words, Erry
didn't know which home she meant: Lynport... or the desert kingdom
she had never seen.

Miya bit into a second fig. "He
burned my home too. I've never seen Tiranor. I was born here on
this island. But my father... he speaks of home often." She
gazed across the sea as if she could see that distant, fallen
kingdom. "He said that most of Tiranor was just desert—dunes,
mountains, and endless plains of sand. But a great river flowed
through it, the Pallan, a giver of life. Oases grew alongside its
banks, lush with fruit trees, shade, and a thousand kinds of birds.
Limestone towers rose among them, capped with platinum. Great cities
sprawled between the trees, centers of learning, their libraries and
universities as large as palaces." Miya's eyes gleamed. "I
wish I could have seen Tiranor. But she is fallen now. We are all
that remains."

Erry stared across the sea,
trying to imagine it.

"It sounds a lot nicer than
Requiem," she said. "I wish I could have seen it too."
She reached under her collar, pulled out her silver amulet, and
showed it to Miya. "Can you read the letters here? I've never
known what it says."

Miya's eyes widened. "This...
this is Tiran silver! This is the sunburst of our god. How did you
get this?"

Erry glared. "I didn't
steal it, if that's what you mean."

"I didn't mean..."
Pain filled Miya's eyes. "I'm sorry. Let me see."

The young Tiran girl held the
amulet, leaned closer, and examined it.

"Well, can you read it?"
Erry said. She herself had never learned to read; she didn't even
know whether Tiranor and Requiem used the same letters.

Miya nodded and closed her eyes,
saying nothing.

"Well, what does it say,
damn it?" Erry scowled. "Won't you tell me?"

Maybe she had been wrong to
trust this girl. Would Miya accuse her of being a thief? All her
life upon the docks, fellow girls would accuse Erry of being a
prostitute, a burglar, and a bastard. Men would beat Erry; girls
would taunt her, their words more painful than blows. Was Miya just
one of them, a pretty young thing who thought it fun to mock the
orphan?

"Well, forget it then, damn
you!" Erry said. She yanked the amulet back, rose to her feet,
and was about to stomp away... and froze.

Tears were flowing down Miya's
cheeks.

Erry stared. "Bloody
stars, what...?" She sat back down. "Miya, why are you
crying?"

The young Tiran sniffed and
smiled tremulously.

"The
words on your amulet... My father used to speak them. I haven't
heard them in many years. Your amulet bears our Old Words, the
prayer of Tiranor.
We
Will Never Fall.
"
She blinked tears from her eyes. "For thousands of years, our
people spoke those words in the desert."

Erry felt all her rage flow
away, and her own eyes stung. She clutched the amulet to her chest.

"We will never fall,"
she repeated in a whisper. "I like that."

Miya sighed and lowered her
head. "And yet we did fall. Perhaps that prayer is meaningless
now."

Erry
shook her head mightily. "We did
not
fall. Look around you." She swept her arm around, gesturing at
the camp. "I see thousands of survivors. I see a new life for
our people. This amulet is right. We
will
never fall."

The young woman looked up and
tilted her head. "Our... people? Erry, aren't you—"

Before she could complete her
question, a shout rose from among the trees.

"Erry Docker! Damn you,
you filthy urchin. Docker, where are you?"

Erry sighed. It was Leresy.

"Oh, bloody bollocks,"
she said and watched the outcast prince emerge from the trees.

Leresy stomped forward, hands on
his hips, his chin raised with the same old vanity of royalty. A few
dried leaves topped his golden hair instead of a crown, and he wore
only tattered rags rather than finery, but he still strutted around
as if he owned the world.

And
as if he owns me,
Erry thought.

He pointed at her. "There
you are. Stars damn it, woman, didn't you hear me? Come with me.
The council is about to begin, and I need you there."

She glared and spat at his feet.
"Go find a rotting turtle carcass to shag, Leresy. I'm eating
figs. I don't need no fancy-arse council for princelings."

He groaned and rolled his eyes.
"Burn me. I need you to demonstrate the damn shards. Remember?
Valien will be there, and so will my sister. The leader of this
rabble will be there too, some oaf named Sila."

It was Miya's turn to glare.
The young woman hopped onto her feet, crossed her arms, and growled.

"Sila is a great captain,"
she said. "He is my father. You will show him respect."

Leresy guffawed. He looked at
Miya as if noticing her for the first time. His eyes trailed up and
down, taking in her golden skin, pale hair, and slim body clad in
leaves.

"Well, burn me," he
said. "Another damn urchin. As if one weren't enough."

Erry grabbed a pine cone and
tossed it at him. "She's got more bollocks than you do, Leresy.
Brains too I reckon, but so does this pine cone. And I'm not some
trained monkey. You want to demonstrate the shards? Use them on
yourself, preferably while flying over a campfire."

He groaned, walked forward, and
grabbed her arm. "Just come on. Bloody Abyss. Eating figs!
We've got more important things to do. Planning how to kill my
father, say." He began pulling her down the hillside, then
called back up toward Miya. "You! Little girl. You come with
us too. You'll want to see this."

Miya fumed, her arms crossed and
her eyes blazing. She looked ready to claw Leresy to death. But it
seemed curiosity overcame her anger. Grumbling under her breath, she
followed.

They made their way downhill,
heading toward the southern shore. Back at Horsehead Island, where
the Resistance had been camping, Erry would fly from hilltop to
beach. Since arriving here at Maiden Island that morning, she had
been walking everywhere.

"These people watched
dragons burn down their kingdom," Valien had told her. "We
don't wish to stir those memories. Do not take dragon form around
Tirans."

And so they walked, though
Erry's soles ached, and rocks and thistles covered the hillside.
Birds and mice rustled in the bushes, wild oats swayed taller than
Erry's knees, and a falcon chased starlings overhead. The stems of
old walls rose from the grass, only a foot tall and smoothed to
lumps. Grass, vines, and cyclamens all but covered them.

"Somebody once lived here,"
Erry said.

Miya nodded, walking at her
side, the wind in her hair. "My father said the Ancients lived
on these islands. They were a wise people who vanished thousands of
years ago. Father said they were great explorers who sailed around
the world, navigating by the stars."

Walking ahead of the two, Leresy
snorted. "Lot of good it did them. Nothing left of the buggers
but a few old bricks."

He kicked an old wall, stubbed
his toe, and wailed. Erry and Miya nearly fell over laughing.

After an hour of walking, they
had crossed the island's waist and beheld a cove. Erry's eyes
widened and she gasped.

"Stars above," she
said. "Would you look at that."