exited the fort. He walked across the courtyard, where his men were dragging the dead girl away. A cold wind blew, ruffling his robe, and Dies Irae looked up to see crows gliding under gray clouds. Winter is coming, he thought. The weredragons will freeze in the snow and winds, but I will burn with the Sun God's flame.
He walked down the hill, hand on the hilt of his sword. The stones were rough beneath his feet, and the grass and trees moved in the whistling winds. Below in the village, he saw his soldiers move from house to house, plundering food and grabbing peasant girls. When Dies Irae reached the stables, he stepped inside to find ten griffins. Gloriae stood there too, tending to her mount.
"She's hurt... badly," Gloriae said, not turning to look at him. A tin lamp hung over her, its light warm against her golden hair, her soft cheek, and her white tunic. Her griffin lay on her side, bandages covering her leg, side, and neck. She mewled.
"Kill the beast," Dies Irae said, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice. "She's useless now."
Gloriae spun toward him, eyes flashing. Golden flecks danced in those green eyes, as ever when fury filled her. "How dare you say this? I've had Aquila since I was a child." She patted the griffin's head. "Hush, princess of the sky. You are strong. You will heal."
Dies Irae looked down at his daughter and her griffin, and couldn't decide what emotion he felt more strongly: disgust at her weakness, or admiration for her passion. The latter won, and Dies Irae sighed.
"Gloriae, I have spoiled you. I should have been harder on you, taught you to see griffins as tools, no more; not living creatures to love. But how could I? I admit it; I too have fond feelings for my griffin Volucris, and would rage should a weredragon wound him." He took her hands in his. "We will heal dear Aquila, and we will kill the weredragons who hurt her."
Gloriae looked at the griffin, chewed her lip, and said, "The blue weredragon hurt her. He'd have killed her and me, but... the silver dragon stopped him. I can't understand it. Kyrie Eleison had me; I was his to kill. The one they call Lacrimosa pulled him back." She shook her head as if to clear it. Her locks of golden hair swayed. "I don't understand, Father. I'm confused. Lacrimosa said something to me in the forest. Something about my mother." She looked back at her griffin, worry clouding her eyes.
Dies Irae winced inwardly. Of course Lacrimosa still recognized Gloriae. Of course she would stop Kyrie from killing her daughter. Gloriae must never know, he told himself, as he'd been telling himself for fifteen years, since that day he took one sister for his own, and left the other for the weredragons.
"Daughter," he said, "have I told you about your mother?"
"Of course. You told me that the weredragons killed her."
He nodded. "When you were three years old. Of course Lacrimosa wanted to pull Kyrie back. She wanted to kill you herself. Lacrimosa, you see, is the weredragon who murdered your mother."
Gloriae's face changed. All worry and doubt left her, and hatred suffused her expression. She whispered through a tight jaw. "I knew it."
Dies Irae stepped toward his griffin, the great Volucris, who stood at the back of the stable. He mounted the beast. "Come, Gloriae. Sit before me on the saddle. We go hunting weredragons."
Within minutes, they were flying over the countryside, a hundred griffins behind them. As the wind streamed through his hair, Dies Irae allowed himself a small, tight smile.
KYRIE ELEISON
They flew through the night. In the darkness they streamed forward, three Vir Requis—one young and blue, fire in his nostrils; one black and burly, scarred and limp; one slender and silvery, her eyes like stars. Cloaked in night and clouds, they flew like the great herds of old.
It feels good to fly, Kyrie thought. They had run for leagues on human feet, until finally shaking off the pursuit in hills of thick pines. The griffins could still return, he knew, and he kept both eyes wide open—but for a moment, he allowed himself to breathe easy.
"Are you sure she'll be there?" Benedictus called over the roaring winds. They flew hidden in cloud. Their scales glistened in the firelight from their mouths and nostrils.
Lacrimosa nodded. "She loved that cave as a child, that summer we hid there. In the snowy