Requiem's Song (Book 1) (4 page)

So
many times she had dreamed of escape! So many times she had clawed at
her bonds, trying to sneak out in the night! Yet she had always
stayed, fearing the wilderness—the hunger and thirst of open land,
the roaming tribes that fed on human flesh, and the wild rocs and
saber-toothed cats who patrolled sky and land. And so she remained,
year after year, a broken thing.

She
looked up at her chieftain now, and perhaps it was the filth on his
feet, and perhaps the thought of southern suffering, and perhaps it
was that today she was twenty—whatever the reason, today she stared
into his eyes, a feat she rarely dared, and she spoke in a strained
voice.

"If
I'm shite, wouldn't I just make your feet dirtier?"

For
a long moment, Zerra stared down at her, silent. Ten years ago, Laira
had watched her mother—a beautiful white dragon—burn the chieftain.
Zerra's wounds had never healed. Half his face still looked like
melted tallow, a field of grooves and wrinkles, the ear gone, the eye
drooping. The scars stretched down his neck and along his arm. He
was missing two fingers on his left hand, gone to the dragonfire.

But
his scars were not what frightened Laira. After all, her own face was
ravaged now too. Zerra—still seeking vengeance—had seen to that.
She had seen her reflection many times; Zerra insisted she stare into
whatever clear pool they passed, forcing her to see her wretchedness.

A
few years ago, he had beaten Laira so badly he had shattered her jaw.
Today her chin and mouth were crooked, pushed to the side, and her
teeth no longer aligned. It not only marred her appearance but left
her voice slurred; she always sounded like she were chewing on
cotton, and her breath often wheezed. One time she had tried to pull
her jaw back into place, only for the pain to nearly knock her
unconscious. And she so remained—crooked, mumbling, a pathetic
little wretch Zerra kept alive for his amusement.

"You
look like a mole rat," he would tell her, scoffing whenever she
walked by. Often he would shove her in the mud, toss game entrails
onto her, or spit in her face, then mock her ugliness. "You are
a small, weak maggot."

Small
and weak she was. Years of hunger had damaged her as much as his
fists. The chieftain only allowed her to eat whatever bits of skin
and fat remained after the hunt, and whenever anyone had tried to
give her more, he had beaten them with stick and stone. The long
hunger left Laira fragile, as weak as a sapling in frost. She hadn't
grown much since that day ten years ago, that day her mother had
died. Though a woman now, she stood barely larger than a child, her
growth stunted, her frame frail. Her head often spun when she walked
too much, and her arms were thin as twigs. Zerra enjoyed mocking her
weakness, shoving her down and laughing when she could not rise. He
claimed she was weak because of her curse, the disease he was
determined—but could not prove—she carried.

To
complete her misery, the chieftain sheared her hair every moon,
leaving her with ragged black strands and a nicked scalp. He clad her
not in warm buffalo or bear fur like the rest of the tribe, but in a
ragged patchwork of rat pelts. He had pissed on that garment once and
refused to let her wash it. "That is how I mark what is mine,"
he had said. "And you are mine to torment." The tattered
cloak still stank of him.

Her
only redeeming feature, Laira thought, was her eyes. On their own,
they were perhaps ordinary. But in her gaunt face, they seemed
unusually large, a deep green tinged with blue. Whenever Zerra forced
her to stare at her reflection—to see her slanted chin, her crooked
mouth, her sheared hair like ragged porcupine quills—Laira would
focus on those large green eyes.
They
are my mother's eyes,
she thought.
And they
are beautiful.

And
so no—it was not Zerra's scars that frightened Laira today, for she
was no prettier. It was the rage in his eyes—the rage that promised
another beating, that promised days of hunger, that promised he would
hurt her, break her, make her regret every word and beg for mercy.

I
need not fear him,
Laira thought, staring up into his eyes.
My
father is a great prince in a distant kingdom. My mother told me. I
am descended of greatness. I—

She
was so weary with hunger—she had not eaten in a day—that she didn't
even see his fist moving. It slammed into her head, knocking her into
the mud.

She
lay for a moment, dazed. Her head spun. She wanted to get up. She
wanted to fight him.

I
can turn into a dragon,
she
thought.
I did it once.
I can do it again. I can burn him. I—

The
vision of her mother reappeared in her mind, interrupting her
thoughts—a memory of the woman burning at the stake, screaming.

I
promised. I promised I would never shift again.

A
weight pressed down on her wrist and Laira whimpered. Through narrow
eyes, she saw Zerra stepping on her, smirking, and she thought he
would snap her bone, tear off her hand. He wiped his other foot upon
her face, smearing her with its filth.

"You're
right," he said. "You are worse than shite. Your mother was
no better." He snorted. "I know what she told you. She
claimed she had bedded some southern prince, that she spawned a
princess. But you are filth. You are only a princess of worms. You
will never leave this place. And someday . . . someday I will uncover
the reptilian curse in you too, and you will burn like she did."

He
kicked her stomach and Laira doubled over. Through floating stars of
pain, she saw him walk downhill toward their camp.

She
lay wheezing and trembling. With her crooked jaw, she couldn't even
cough properly. She should be thankful, she knew. He had not broken
her bones this time. He had not cut off her ears, which he had often
vowed to do, or burned her body, another common threat. He had shown
her mercy today.

"I
must be strong," she whispered. "I am the daughter of a
prince."

She
closed her eyes, trying to remember that distant kingdom across the
sea. Laira had been only three years old when Mother had fled with
her, coming to this northern land, for the cursed ones—those who
could become dragons—were hunted in Eteer too. In a haze, Laira saw
faded images, perhaps memories, perhaps the stories Mother had told.
Towers in sunlight. A great port that thrust into a city of countless
homes. Walls topped with soldiers and lush gardens that grew atop the
palace roof. Laira had seen villages here in the north; Zerra
sometimes stopped at these small settlements, trading meat and fur
for bronze and ale. But their old city across the sea . . . that was
a place a thousand times the size, its houses not built of mud and
straw but of actual stone.

"I
want to go back home," Laira had once begged her mother.
"Please. I hate the cold north. I hate this tribe. I want to go
home."

Mother
had only hushed her, kissed her brow, and smoothed her hair. "We
cannot. We bear a secret, a magic of dragons. We had to flee Eteer,
and Zerra is kind to us. Zerra gave us a new home. Hush now, Laira,
my sweetness."

Laira
had blinked away tears and clung to Mother. "Is my father still
there?"

Mother
had rocked her. "Yes, my child. Your father is still there, a
great warrior prince." She showed Laira her amulet, the silver
sigil of Taal, the god of the south. "This is the amulet he gave
me, an amulet to protect us. You are descended of royalty. Never
forget that, even here, even in our exile."

Yet
what was royalty worth, Laira thought, if she could not return?
Cursed with reptilian blood, they had fled the distant land of Eteer.
Yet how was Goldtusk any safer? Mother had died here. Laira suffered
here.

"Should
I flee this tribe as Mother fled her old kingdom?" Her eyes
stung. "Dare I fly to that fabled, secret place . . . the
escarpment? The hidden land where they say other dragons live?"

Tears
streamed down Laira's bruised face, mingling with the mud. Others
like her . . . humans able to become dragons . . . cursed, outcast,
afraid. Men whispered of them. They said that Zerra himself had a
twin brother, a weredragon, a
leader
of weredragons. Could it be true? Or was the escarpment just a myth
as Mother had claimed?

Laira
sighed. If she fled this tribe to seek a legend, she was likely to
die. The escarpment lay many marks away; a single mark was a distance
too far for her to cross alone, let alone many. In this world of
harsh winters and roaming beasts, even a dragon could not survive
alone. Her mother's words echoed in her mind from beyond the years.

There
are no others, Laira. Only us. We are alone. And Goldtusk is our
home.

"Goldtusk
is my home," Laira whispered.

She
pushed herself up onto wobbling arms. Bedraggled and covered in mud,
she stared downhill toward their camp. The tribe's tents rose across
the misty valley, made of animal hides stretched over branches. Their
totem pole rose among them, carved with animal spirits, topped with
the gilded mammoth tusk they worshiped, the god Ka'altei. Deer,
hares, and fowl roasted upon campfires, and the tribesmen, clad in
fur and leather, tended to the meat.

The
tribe's source of power, a flock of rocs, stood tethered outside the
camp. Great vultures the size of dragons, they gathered around a
mammoth carcass, tearing into the meat with sharp beaks. Those beaks
were large enough to swallow Laira whole. As she watched, the tribe
hunters—tall, strong, and sporting jewelry of clay, bronze, and even
gold—walked toward the beasts. One by one, they mounted the rocs and
took flight, brandishing bows and roaring hunting cries.

"The
hunters are strong and proud," Laira said to herself, watching
as they soared. "They are the nobility of Goldtusk. They are
never beaten, never spat upon, never afraid."

She
rose to her feet, hugged herself, and stared at the hunters flying
into the distance, their rocs shrieking.

"My
old kingdom is forbidden to me," Laira whispered. "The
escarpment is but a myth. But I am the child of a warrior prince. I
am noble and I am strong." She clenched her small fists. She
would become what she had vowed the day her mother had died. "I
will be a huntress."

That
evening, the hunters returned upon their rocs, singing the songs of
their totems. The great birds shrieked, beating their rotted wings,
holding game in their talons: deer, boar, and buffalo. With splatters
of blood, they tossed the carcasses down between the tents. Soon
great campfires burned, and the game roasted upon spits, filling the
camp with delicious aromas.

The
women returned too, placing down baskets of berries, nuts, and
mushrooms collected from a nearby grove. Though not as honored as the
hunters, the gatherers too were praised; tribesmen blessed their
names and reached into their baskets, feasting upon their finds.

Songs
rose and ale, traded in what villages they passed, flowed down
throats. One tribeswoman played a lyre, and people clapped and
danced. Teeth bit into the roast meat and grease dripped down chins.

Laira
spent the feast serving the others. She sliced off slabs of meat and
rushed to and fro with clay bowls. She collected what bones the
diners tossed into the dirt, bringing them to the camp dogs in their
pen. She kept scurrying to the nearby stream, returning with buckets
of water, then filling cups and serving the thirsty.

Never
did she eat herself. When once she only sniffed at a bone, Zerra made
sure to march over, slap her cheek, and tell her that bones were for
the dogs, that she was merely a maggot. She kept working, belly
growling and mouth watering.

When
the feast ended, she could rummage through the mud.
She would always find a few discarded nuts, bones, and sometimes even
animal skin. As Laira worked, slicing and serving and rushing about,
she made sure to drop little morsels—when nobody was looking—into
the mud. She would dig them up later, and she would give her belly
some respite.

As
the sun set and the stars emerged, Laira drew comfort from the sight
of the new stars, the ones shaped like a dragon—the Draco
constellation. Mother would tell her that these stars blessed them,
gave them a magic others thought was a curse. Laira glanced up and
prayed silently.

Please,
stars of the dragon, look after me. Give me strength to hide your
magic. Give me strength to fly.

The
feast died down. Men lay patting their full bellies, women nursed
their babes, the rocs fed upon carcasses, and the dogs fought over
scraps. Laira still had much work to do. She would be up half the
night, collecting pottery and washing it in the river. But for now,
she had a more important task.

Hands
clasped behind her back, she approached her chieftain.

Zerra
sat upon a hill overlooking the totem pole. Several of his hunters
sat around him, drinking ale, gnawing on bones, and belching. When
the men saw her approach, they lowered their mugs and narrowed their
eyes. Zerra grunted and shifted upon the boulder he sat on.

"Return
to your work, wretch." He spat. "Wash our pottery and clean
up our scraps, then sleep among the dogs where you belong."

Laira
took a shuddering breath. She thought of her mother's eyes. She
thought of the stars above. She thought of her distant home, a mere
haze of memory. She raised her crooked chin—the chin he had
shattered—and tried to speak in a clear, loud voice. That voice was
slurred now, another victim of Zerra's fist, but she gave it all the
gravity she could.

"I
can do more than clean and serve, my chieftain." She squared her
narrow shoulders. "Allow me to serve you better. One of your
hunters has fallen to the fever. One of your rocs, the female Neiva,
is missing a rider. Tomorrow let me mount Neiva. Let me hunt with
you."