soldiers drilled with swords and spears, forts where great walls rose, towers where archers stood, stables of griffins. She saw catapults and chariots, armored horses, gold and steel everywhere. Statues of Dies Irae stood at every corner, statues of him raising a sword, or swinging a mace, or riding a griffin. Banners of war fluttered from every roof, white and gold and red, swords and spears embroidered upon them.
So many soldiers, she thought. So many things of war. And yet the war had ended, had it not? Dies Irae had destroyed the Vir Requis, killed every one other than a handful. Why did steel and military might still fill these streets? Why did she see more swords and shields than flowers or trees? What enemy did Dies Irae fight now, and what peril could justify this city? No, not a city; Confutatis was a huge fortress now, a barracks of a million people all taught to worship their emperor and hate their enemies.
A palace rose upon the highest point of Confutatis. Golden roofs topped its white towers. A hundred marble statues stood upon its battlements.
A square stretched out before the palace, five hundred yards wide and twice as long, marble columns lining it. The palace's greatest statue stood here, a hundred feet tall and gilded—a statue of Dies Irae in armor, holding aloft a sword. The statue's cold gaze stared upon the city, proud and judging.
Dies Irae and his griffins flew over the palace towers, and Lacrimosa saw a cobbled courtyard below. The griffins descended, and Volucris tossed her down. She slammed into the cobblestones, banging her shoulder, and bit back a cry of pain. Walls surrounded her, archers and griffins atop their battlements. A statue of Dies Irae stood upon a column, glaring down at her.
"Collar her," the real Dies Irae said, dismounting his griffin. He marched across the courtyard toward a gateway. "Muzzle her and chain her to the column."
She raised her head and tried to stand up. A dozen men rushed forward, kicked her, and slammed shields against her, knocking her head to the ground. They closed an iron collar around her neck, muzzled her, and chained her to a column.
"Gloriae, help me," Lacrimosa tried to say, but could not speak with the muzzle. Her daughter stood across the courtyard, eyes cold and arms crossed, staring at her. She hates me, Lacrimosa knew.
Dies Irae approached Gloriae and spoke to her. The two walked through the gateway, leaving the courtyard, capes fluttering. The gates slammed shut behind them, leaving Lacrimosa at the mercy of their soldiers. Those soldiers leered, and several kicked her, spat at her, and mocked her.
Lacrimosa mewled and tried to free herself, but could not. The collar hurt her neck, and she dared not become human; those kicking boots would kill her without her scales offering their meager protection. She weakly flapped her tail at the men, but they only laughed and kicked her harder.
She lowered her head. Fly away from here, Ben, she thought. I cannot bear this fate to be yours too. I cannot live if I see you too chained and beaten. Fly away, Ben, fly and be with Kyrie and Agnus Dei. Never return here.
Finally the soldiers tired and left the courtyard. The archers above kept their arrows pointed at her, staring down with narrowed eyes.
They all think I'm a beast, a monster.
She closed her eyes and tried to remember Requiem, the golden leaves upon the birches, the marble columns, the courtyards where she would walk with Benedictus, dressed in gowns and jewels. As night fell, she let those memories fill her, and her tears fell like jewels in the starlight.
KYRIE ELEISON
"How long has it been?" Kyrie asked Agnus Dei, wings flapping. The sun rose over the horizon, a disk like a burnished, bronze shield from Lanburg Fields. Snowy mountaintops peaked from clouds below. Where the cloud cover broke, Kyrie saw piney mountainsides. Rivers roared between boulders, feeding pools of mist. He saw no game, and his belly grumbled.
"Seventh morning since the Divide," Agnus Dei said, flying beside him. She looked at him, and Kyrie thought that her eyes had lost something of their rage. A week ago, fire and pain had filled them, but now he saw weariness and fear there. Her eyes, normally brown, appeared golden in the sunrise. Dawn danced on her scales.
"Is this all Salvandos is?" he asked. "Mountains, and rivers, and lakes, and...."
His voice died off. During the past week, they'd flown over more landscapes than