Song of Dragons The Complete Trilogy - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,6

expression almost quizzical. "No fine wine for us great, illustrious nobles? Maybe instead of red wine, I shall content myself with red blood."

Mirum stared back, not tearing her eyes away, and clenched her jaw. They might kill her now, she knew. Kill me if you must, but don't look in my tower. Please, Earth God, don't let them see what I hide.

Dies Irae stepped forward. He placed a hand on Gloriae's shoulder. "Now now, sweet daughter," Dies Irae said, voice echoing inside his eagle helm. "This is not the time for blades. Mirum is being the most gracious host she can, for one who lives in a seaside ruin. Let her serve us her bread, her fish and her ale. We are not above the simple pleasures of peasants, are we?"

Mirum felt the rage boil in her, and she swallowed hard. Hers was an old, noble line. Her father had ruled many forts, as had his father, and many past generations of their line. Mirum was descended of great blood, and yet Dies Irae saw her as a waif, a fisherwoman barely worthy to serve him. Still she curtsied again. "I have no fine wine, but my ale is cold, and my bread warm."

Finally Dies Irae removed his helmet, and Mirum saw his face for the first time in ten years. It froze her blood. Here he was, here was this same face, the face that had haunted her for so long. It was ironic, she thought, that he looked so much like the beasts he rode. His face was like the face of an eagle, cold, handsome, his skin a golden hue. His hair was slicked back, blond streaked with gray, and his nose was hooked like a beak. His mouth was a thin line; his lips were so thin and pursed, he seemed almost to have no lips at all. A few more creases marred that face now, and more gray filled his temples, but it was the same face from ten years ago. The cold, golden, griffin face.

He was born to Vir Requis, Mirum remembered suddenly. He had their noble face, their high forehead. But of course, Dies Irae had been born without the gift, without the ancient blessing, without the magic to become a dragon. It must have been so hard, she reflected, shocked to find pity fill her. To be firstborn of Requiem's king, yet lacking the gift. To be cast aside. To grow to hate that gift, to seek to destroy it. So much pain must dwell in him.

That thin mouth curved into a smile, a cold smile, a smile that made that face even harsher, crueler. "Do you fear me, child?" he asked. "You tremble."

She lowered her head, realizing that she had stared at him. "It's been long since the presence of greatness has entered my hall. Forgive me, my lord. I'll fetch your food and drink."

Dies Irae sat at the chipped oak table. Gloriae removed her white leather gloves, stared at a wooden chair distastefully, and too sat down. The third rider—the gaunt, silent man—stayed to guard the door. His barred helm still hid his face.

Mirum hurried out of the hall. She paced downstairs into the cellar, legs trembling, heart thrashing. The cellar was a dark, dusty place carved into the rock beneath Fort Sanctus. The roar of waves was loud here, as were the smells of moss, dried fish, sausages, bread rolls, and oak barrels of ale. She had thought to find Julian sweeping the cellar floors. When she did not see him, she remembered that he had taken his donkey to town that morning, gone to buy turnips and onions and spices. He will probably buy me a gift, too; flowers for my room, or a simple necklace of beads. Dear old man. She was glad that he was gone. He was safe away from this fort. If Julian had been here, Dies Irae would have killed him for sport. Mirum was sure of that.

She collected pewter mugs from a shelf, opened a keg of ale, and began filling the mugs. As she worked, her mind raced. Had the boy in her tower seen the griffins? Surely he had. Surely he knew to fear them. She had rehearsed this day with him many times—every night. She would clutch his shoulders, stare into his eyes, and force him to repeat what she had taught him.

"Stay in the tower," he would say, bored with the words he would recite every night for