Song of Dragons The Complete Trilogy - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,10

the arrow slits, peering at the roaring sea, wishing again that she could dive under that water, swim away, drown into the world of hidden wonders.

Please, Kyrie, she thought feverishly, lips trembling. Please hide.

And if they found him... she still had her sword at her side. She could not hope to kill them all, probably not even kill Dies Irae. Even if she did kill him, that meant torture for her. They would break her spine with hammers, break her limbs and string them through the spokes of a wagon wheel, and hang her outside to slowly die. They would do the same to Kyrie, not caring that he was still a boy, only sixteen. But maybe... maybe if she could draw her sword fast enough, she could still fall upon it.

They reached the tower top. A rotting wooden trapdoor lay above her, leading outside to the crenellations.

"Open it," Dies Irae said.

With numb hands, Mirum pushed open the trapdoor, then stepped outside onto the windy, crumbling crest of Fort Sanctus.

The waves roared below, spraying foam. The wind lashed her, streamed her hair, and flapped her cloak and dress. Old iron bars surrounded the tower top, the vestiges of some ancient armaments, now rusty. The stone they rose from was moldy and chipped. This tower has been in my family for centuries. Will it fall today?

Below the tower, Mirum could see the three griffins, those beautiful beasts. She could not see Sol. Had the griffins eaten her, or had her mare escaped? Either fate seemed kinder than what Mirum would endure if they found Kyrie here today.

Mirum could see for leagues from here. On one side, she saw the endless sea, gray water flowing into the horizon. On her other side, she saw leagues of boulders, rocky fields, and scraggly deltas. Once all these lands had belonged to her father, and to his father before him, and many forts had risen from them. Dies Irae had taken these lands, toppled these forts, killed her father and his father. All he'd left was this place, this old tower, this old village. When Mirum looked down, she could see the fishing village, this hamlet where somebody had betrayed her, where somebody had seen Kyrie and spoken.

I told you, Kyrie, she thought and tasted tears on her lips. I told you not to fly. I told you never to use your magic, never to become a dragon. But he would never listen. A Vir Requis was meant to fly. If they stayed human too long, they grew thin, pale, withered. They needed to breathe fire, to flap wings and taste the firmaments between their jaws.

"There's nobody here," Gloriae said, her sword drawn. The wind streamed her golden hair and turned her cheeks pink.

Dies Irae raised his steel fist, the spiked mace head. "Wait, my daughter. We will look."

A few old chests and barrels littered the tower top. Dies Irae eyed them.

"Old fishing gear," Mirum said, and was surprised to hear no hoarseness to her voice, almost no trace of fear. Her voice sounded dead. Flat.

Dies Irae did not spare her a glance. "We shall see. Molok, the laceleaf, please."

The gaunt man stepped forward, rail-thin, tall and gangly. Finally he lifted his helmet's visor, and Mirum saw his face. The face was cadaverous. His cheekbones jutted and his dark eyes were sunken. Mirum knew this one. Lord Molok—known in whispers as the baby killer, for he had once slaughtered five Vir Requis infants in a village, and probably many more that men did not speak of. As Mirum watched, trembling, Molok opened a leather pouch. He pulled out crumpled leaves and handed them to Dies Irae.

Mirum's knees trembled. Laceleaf. The pale, serrated leaves leaked white latex like milk. Laceleaf was what Dies Irae would call it, of course; a mild name, the name of a herb one might find in an old woman's garden. To the Vir Requis it had other names.

"Do you know what this is?" Dies Irae asked. He held the leaves up to Mirum's nose. He crushed one between two fingers, and she smelled it, a smell like vinegar and overripe apples.

"A herb," she whispered.

Dies Irae laughed softly. "To you or me, yes. A harmless herb. My maids often cook my meals with it. But to the weredragons... do you know what they call it, sweetness?" His nostrils flared, inhaling the plant's aroma, and he let out a satisfied sigh. "They call it ilbane, or deathweed, or devil's leaves. In their ancient