Requiem's Song (Book 1) (8 page)

One
puppet, a wooden girl with long hair of golden wool, walked across
the little stage, picking fabric flowers. A second puppet lurked
behind her—this one was stooped, hook-nosed, and pale, its eyes
beady and red, its warts hairy. Children squealed to see the ugly
man, crying out to the golden-haired doll, warning her of the danger
lurking behind.

The
wooden girl seemed to hear the shouts from the audience. She froze,
then spun around to face the lurking man behind her. With a flurry of
ribbons and a puff of smoke, the twisted puppet vanished. Where it
had stood now roared a wooden dragon, painted black, its eyes red.

"A
weredragon!" shouted the wooden girl.

The
crowd gasped and cried out. "A weredragon! Be careful!"

Tanin's
heart sank. He hadn't thought the day could get worse, but seeing
this play soured his belly more than his failed performance.

We
are monsters to them,
he thought, balling his fists at his sides. He shut his eyes,
remembering that night—that night his old home, a village like this,
had discovered his family's secret.

His
father, Jeid Blacksmith, a beefy man with a shaggy beard. His
sisters, headstrong Maev and little Requiem. His grandfather, the
wise druid Eranor. And him—Tanin, only a youth in those days. A
family cursed. Diseased.

"Weredragons!"
the people had cried to them, firing arrows, tossing stones. His own
uncle, the cruel Zerra, had stood among them. "Weredragons!"

Today,
ten years later, as Tanin stood here in this new village, the voices
calling toward the puppet mingled with the voices in his memory.

"Weredragon,
weredragon!"

He
opened his eyes and took a shuddering breath. In the puppet booth, a
new doll—a noble warrior clad in armor, bearing a little
spear—raced across the stage and slew the carved dragon. The crowd
cheered. The wooden girl rose to her little feet and kissed the
hero—a happy ending, a monster vanquished.

"But
we're not monsters," Tanin whispered. "We're not."

A
voice rose in the crowd. "Oi! Juggle boy!"

Tanin
blinked, banishing his memories, and looked to his side. He lost his
breath, his heart burst into a gallop, and he felt his cheeks flush.
The dancer was walking toward him, her red hair cascading like a
fiery waterfall. She swayed as she moved through the crowd, her
scanty outfit doing little to hide her form, and gave him that
crooked smile of hers.

He
cleared his throat. "Hello, dancing boy! I mean, girl. I
mean—obviously you're a girl." He glanced down at her body,
then froze and quickly raised his eyes. "I mean—not obviously.
Not that I care. I mean, whether you're a boy or a girl, or—"

She
reached him and placed a finger against his lips. "Shush,
juggling boy. You're only digging yourself a deeper hole."

Tanin
sighed. "I'm as clumsy with words as I am with juggling."

She
laughed. "But I think you're cute. I'm Feyna." She gave a
little curtsy.

"My
name is Tanin." His heart leaped. Cute indeed!

For
years now, wandering from town to town, Tanin had tried to forget the
girl he had loved in his youth—the girl who had broken his heart,
who had turned against him after learning his secret.

She
called me diseased,
he
remembered, wincing.
She
shouted for her father to kill me—the dirty weredragon, the monster
she had kissed.

Tanin
looked at Feyna's green eyes, her bright smile, and her tresses of
red hair, and his heart rose again. Maybe this day, this new life,
wouldn't be so bad. Maybe there was some hope for him—for
acceptance, for love.

Music
was playing at a stage nearby.
Ask
her to dance,
Tanin
told himself.
Ask her
to drink some ale.
He
gulped.
Ask to walk
together in the fields or—

As
he was stumbling with his tongue, Feyna pointed at the puppet show
and gasped.

"Oh,
look, Tanin!" she said. "A weredragon." Upon the
stage, the heroic doll was now battling two wooden dragons, slashing
them with its sword.

At
once, Tanin's heart sank again. "Anyway, how about a dance or—"

But
she seemed not to hear him. Her face changed—turned bitter,
disgusted. She shuddered. "Foul creatures, weredragons. Even as
dolls they chill me. They say they drink the blood of babies. Thank
goodness our town has arrows to shoot down those monsters."

"They're
not monsters!" Tanin said before he could stop himself. He
instantly regretted those words.

Stupid!
he told himself.
Do you
want another village to shoot arrows at you, chase you into
banishment?

Feyna
turned toward him, narrowed her eyes, and tilted her head. "Not
. . . monsters? Have you met one? My father saw a weredragon only
this moon—a great beast in the village of Oldforge. The creature
burned ten men." She sneered. "One of those men was my
uncle. I hate weredragons and would slay them all myself if I could."

That
creature was my father,
Tanin
thought.
He burned them
after they tried to kill him, after they pierced him with ten arrows.

But
he could say nothing. How could he? He turned away, feeling ill.

"I
have to go." He began to walk away, eyes stinging.

I
have to leave this village,
he thought.
I have to
keep going, to keep traveling, to keep looking for others like me.

His
throat felt too tight and his eyes burned.

Her
voice rose behind him. "The juggler! He loves weredragons!"
She laughed bitterly. "A weredragon lover among us!"

Men
began to grumble around Tanin. One cursed and spat at his feet. Tanin
kept walking through the crowd.

"Weredragon
lover!" cried one woman, pointing at him.

"Maybe
he's a weredragon himself!" shouted another man, an old farmer
with white whiskers.

Tanin
increased his pace, but more people began to mob him, and one man
grabbed his shoulders. At his side, Feyna was pointing at him,
shouting that a weredragon had killed her uncle, that the juggler
knew of weredragons and was protecting them, was maybe even a
weredragon himself. The faces danced around Tanin, and he tried to
worm his way through the crowd, but they grabbed him, and a woman
shoved him, and—

"What
is the meaning of this?"

The
authoritative voice pierced the air. A man yowled and fell, clutching
a bloodied nose. Another man grunted as a boot flew into his belly.
Shoving her way through the crowd, sneering, came Tanin's little
sister.

"Maev!"
he said.

Her
one eye was swollen shut, and a bruise covered her opposite cheek.
Blood stained her knuckles, and mud caked her body and long, golden
hair. As she balled her fists, her dragon tattoos twitched upon her
arms. She was a couple of years younger than Tanin, almost as tall,
and ten times as fierce.

When
she reached him, Maev grabbed him and stared at the crowd, daring
anyone to approach. The people stepped back, blanching. Tales of the
Hammer, the traveling wrestler with the dragon tattoos, had spread to
most towns across the Ranin River. Most of these folk had just seen
Maev pummel her latest opponent—a burly wrestler with arms like tree
trunks—in the mud pit.

"Was
my dolt of a brother blabbering about weredragons again?" Maev
snorted and rolled her eyes. "The fool keeps going on about
them. He's got a doll of one at home—like a little girl—and doesn't
realize the damn creatures are monsters. Soft in the head, he is."
She tugged Tanin's collar and sneered into his ear. "Isn't that
right, brother?"

Tanin
tried to shake himself free, but she wouldn't release him. Abandoning
any hope of saving his dignity today, Tanin nodded.

"Uhm,
yes. Sorry about that." He nodded. "Damn weredragons.
Horrible creatures." The words tasted like ash in his mouth.

The
crowd dispersed slowly. Feyna gave him a disgusted glare before
walking off to flirt with a tall baker's boy.

"You
almost got us killed," Maev said. She released Tanin's collar
and shoved him several paces back.

"She
. . ." His voice dropped to a whisper. "She saw Grizzly.
She called him a monster."

Maev
groaned. "I call our big lummox of a father a monster too. So
what?" She punched his chest. "You can't go around getting
us into trouble like this all the time. All right? What happened in
Oldforge was bad enough. You and girls. Always you and girls . . .
almost getting us killed."

Her
words stabbed him.

You
are diseased!
his old
beloved had shouted.

Father,
kill him!

Still
those old voices echoed, that old pain.

Tanin
sighed. "Let's leave this place. I want to go home."

His
sister sighed and mussed his hair. "Oh, you stupid clump of a
brother." She showed him the purse of seashells she had
earned—the prize from her fight. "We'll barter these in the
next village over. Just keep your mouth shut there, all right? Once
we get the herbs Grandpapa wants, a new belt for me, and some new fur
pelts for Grizzly, we'll go home."

They
left the village. They walked through fields of wild grass, geese
honking above, until the sun began to set and the village disappeared
in the distance. The stars stone above and distant mountains rose,
deep black under the indigo sky.

In
darkness, Tanin and Maev—outcasts and wanderers—summoned their
magic.

Wings
grew from their backs. Fire filled their bellies. With clanking
scales, they rose into the sky, creatures, cursed ones, monsters . .
. dragons. They flew in silence. They flew in darkness. Rain began to
fall, and Tanin closed his eyes.

"Someday,"
he whispered into the wind, "I'll find others. Someday I'll know
that we're not alone. Someday the world will know that we're not
beasts to hunt."

At
his side, his sister—a green dragon, her scales gleaming in the
moonlight—looked at him, her eyes sad. She gave him a playful tap of
her tail and blasted a little fire his way, just enough to singe his
scales. He groaned and they flew onward into the shadows.

 
 
ISSARI

Issari Seran, Princess of Eteer,
tightened her ragged cloak around her shoulders and entered the
seediest, smelliest part of her city.

Back in the palace, Issari had
gazed from balconies upon the port of Eteer, the great city-state,
center of her family's civilization. From there, in safety and
luxury, it had seemed a magical place. The canal thrust in from the
sea, ending with a ring of water like the handle of a key. Ships
sailed here every day, bringing in wares from distant lands: furs
from the northern barbarians, spices from the desert tribes in the
west, and even silk from the east. Issari had always imagined that
walking along the port would reveal a landscape of wonder: merchants
in priceless purple fabrics, jesters and buskers, and many tales and
songs from distant lands.

Now, walking for the first time
along this port she had seen so often from her balcony, she found a
realm of grime, sweat, and stench.

Issari saw no merchants bedecked
in plenty, only sailors with craggy bare chests, scowling faces, and
hard eyes that seemed to undress her. She saw no jesters and
musicians like those in the palace, only ratty men offering games of
chance played with cups and peas, a chained bear battling rabid dogs,
and topless women selling their bodies for copper coins.

My
own face is engraved on some of those coins,
Issari thought, shivering as she watched a sailor toss a few coppers
toward a plump prostitute whose three children clutched her legs.

"How much for a trick?"
one sailor called out, trundling toward Issari. He stank of cheap
spirits, and yellow stains coated his breeches. He grabbed his groin.
"I got me two coppers. I say you ain't worth one."

His smell—a miasma of urine,
vomit, and fish—assailed Issari. Her head spun and she took a step
back. "I . . . I'm not . . ."

.
. . a prostitute,
she
wanted to say, but she couldn't bring the word to her lips. She had
heard of such loose women, but she had thought them only tales to
stop rebellious daughters from running away.

"Come on!" The drunken
sailor stumbled toward her, reaching out talon-like fingers. "Let's
see what's under your robes."

"Stand back, sir!"
Issari said, trying to keep her voice steady, but she heard it
tremble.

She took another step back, and
she hit somebody. Something clattered and curses rose behind her.

Issari spun around to see a
stout woman standing over a fallen tin dish. Live crabs were fleeing
the vessel to run along the boardwalk.

"I'm sorry!" Issari
said, kneeling to lift the animals. "Let me help—"

The woman scowled, spat out a
curse so vile Issari blushed to hear it, and smacked Issari on the
head.

"Watch where you're going,
princess!" the woman said and slapped her again.

Princess?
Issari gulped and trembled. Was her cover blown? She had disguised
herself, donning a ragged old robe, hiding her raven braid under a
shawl, and even caking her face with dirt. How did this woman—

"Go on, get lost, you
whore!" the woman shouted and tried to smack her again.

Some relief filled Issari to
realize that "princess" here was an insult, much like the
others the stocky woman was now hurling her way. Issari fled, racing
away from the woman, the scurrying crabs, and the drunken sailor who
was busy tugging his groin while ogling the two women.

Tears budded in Issari's eyes as
she moved through the crowd. She had never imagined any place like
this could exist in her kingdom, let alone so close to her home. When
she craned her neck and stood on tiptoes, she could even see that
home—the blue and gold palace with its rooftop gardens—rising upon
a distant hill. Issari had been away for only a couple of hours, but
already she missed that home so badly she wanted to weep.