Song of Dragons The Complete Trilogy - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,229

whispered and yellow weeds rustled. Gloriae tried to imagine Requiem in her glory days: Proud columns of marble rising among birches, stone pools and statues among flowers, and white temples where priests played harps. Mostly, she imagined herds of dragons in the sky, roaring their song, a stream of color and fire and music.

I destroyed this land, she thought, remembering the dragons she had slain in her youth.

But no. She had been only a child when Dies Irae started his war. Three years old, that was all. By the time she was eight, most dragons were dead; only a handful of survivors remained for her to hunt.

"He did this," she whispered and clenched her fist around Per Ignem's hilt. "Not me. Him alone."

The memories swirling through her, Gloriae had forgotten about her mother beside her. Lacrimosa now touched her hair and smiled sadly. There was no accusation in her lavender eyes, only pain and love.

"I know, sweetness," she whispered.

For the first time, Gloriae realized that she looked like her mother. Lacrimosa had the same pale skin, the same golden hair, the same face Gloriae knew people said was beautiful.

"What do you know?" she whispered, and a tightness gripped her chest. She had spoken little; she had thought a lot. Could Lacrimosa see into her heart?

Lacrimosa took her hand. "You are my daughter, Gloriae. You don't have to speak for me to know your pain. You shield this pain in ice, but it pulses red as fire, and I can see its light."

Gloriae stopped walking. A tremble took her knees. "I hide nothing," she whispered.

But suddenly Lacrimosa was embracing her, and Gloriae allowed it. Suddenly tears stung at her eyes.

"I love you, Gloriae," her mother whispered into her ear. "You don't have to speak of your pain. Not until you're ready. I know what he did to you. I know what he made you do. And I still love you. I always have and I always will." She pulled back and looked into Gloriae's eyes. "You are forgiven, Gloriae."

Something salty touched her lips. She was crying. She, Gloriae the Gilded—crying. Her fingers trembled. No, she told herself. Stay strong. You are Gloriae the Gilded. You are a killer. You are a warrior of steel. You... you....

She fell to her knees, and another tear flowed, and Gloriae reached out to clutch at something, anything, and Mother was there kneeling beside her. She clung to her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her tears on Mother's shoulder. "I'm sorry, please. Please. I didn't know, I...."

She bit back her words. She knuckled away her tears.

"No," she said. "No pain. Not now. I'm not ready. We still have to be strong. To kill him. We must kill him, Mother."

Lacrimosa nodded and brushed back locks of Gloriae's hair. "We will kill him. Now let's keep moving. We have statues to find."

They continued walking through the ruins. Crows cawed above, the first sign of life Gloriae had seen all day. She look at Lacrimosa, this woman of pale frailty like starlight, and realized: For the first time, I called her Mother.

AGNUS DEI

"Pup, you're walking too slowly," she said. "Can't you hurry up?"

Kyrie glared at her. He looked to Agnus Dei like a porcupine, all bristly with weapons. A sword hung from his right hip, a dagger from his left. A bow, a quiver of arrows, and two torches hung over his back. Dented armor covered his forearms and legs, and he wore a helmet that was too large. With all this covering him, he sloshed through the snow like a drunkard.

"Agnus Dei," he said, "I swear. If you complain about one more thing, I'm going to—"

"What, give me a black eye?" She smiled crookedly. "Maybe a fat lip? I'd like to see you try, pup. I'm stronger than you, deadlier than you, faster than you—well, obviously faster than you, seeing how slow you're walking. Look at me. I'm bearing just as much armor and weapons, but I'm walking straight and fast."

"I might be slower, but you're whinier," he said, adjusting the strap of his quiver. "That's for sure."

"Who's whiny?" she asked and mimicked him. "Ow, Agnus Dei! My feet hurt. I'm hungry. I'm thirsty. I love you so much, that my heart aches, and my loins are about to burst into flame."

He groaned. "And what about you?" He spoke in falsetto. "Oh pup, I want to fight! No wait, I want to fly now. Actually let's kiss and roll in the hay!"

She snorted. "You wish." But in truth, she did