Song of Dragons The Complete Trilogy - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,9

Gloriae. "Bring her to me."

The young woman was slim, no taller than Mirum and unlikely to be stronger, but still she stepped forward, green eyes flashing with amusement. A slight, crooked smile on her lips, Gloriae shoved Mirum.

Dies Irae caught her and pulled her down, so that Mirum sat in his lap. She tried to rise, to struggle, but Dies Irae held her firmly, his iron arm across her. She turned her face away from his, disgusted, but he clutched her cheek with his good hand and turned her face toward him. Gloriae laughed icily.

"So innocent," Dies Irae whispered to Mirum. His good hand was gloved in moleskin, and he used it to wipe the blood off her lip. "You are still a child, are you not? Like the last time I saw you. A cloud, you say. It is sweet, my child, sweet like your soft cheeks, like your bloodied lips, sweet like all of you." His eyes undressed her. "But no, child. This was no cloud. This was the shape of a dragon, swooping low over the sea at nights, sometimes roaring, scaring fishermen's children, waking them, filling their nightmares. Can you imagine the atrocity, child? A dragon flying at night... here in my lands? Over the sea of Fort Sanctus, which I let you rule?"

Mirum shut her eyes. Looking at his golden, hard face was too painful. "I have seen no dragons here."

Dies Irae squeezed her thigh, and Mirum struggled, but could not free herself. "Nobody has seen dragons, not true dragons, not in a thousand years. The true dragons left these lands long ago. No, child. This was a Vir Requis."

At the sound of that ancient name, the tittering Gloriae fell silent. Mirum froze, her breath dying within her. Vir Requis. Nobody spoke those words anymore. They were forbidden words, taboo, words Dies Irae allowed nobody to speak.

Vir Requis. The ancient blood. The men who carried the old magic, the magic that let them take dragon form. They were not true dragons, but nor were they true men. Vir Requis. A proud, ancient race. They were remembered now as weredragons, as if they were monsters, no nobler or prouder than beasts.

"But... but I thought they're all dead," Mirum whispered and opened her eyes.

Dies Irae was looking at her, and Mirum realized that his eyes were the same color as her sea, gray blue, as cold and dangerous as those waves that crashed against her fort.

"I thought so too, child," he whispered, so softly that she read his lips more than she heard his voice. "But they say that one may have survived. One... maybe two. Maybe three. No more. No more out of a million. But a handful might remain, pretending to be decent humans. Like cowards they hide—in basements, in caves. Maybe even, child, in a ruined seaside tower."

There could be no doubt now. He knew of Kyrie. Someone had betrayed them. One of the villagers. One of her friends. Someone had seen Kyrie, had seen him turn into a dragon, and had talked.

A tear rolled down Mirum's cheek.

"Now now, dear child," Dies Irae said and lifted the tear on his finger. "Why do you cry? Is it for your shame, your shame for having betrayed me?"

Mirum tightened her lips. No! Do not give up now. Not yet. Live a little longer, for Father, for Kyrie. She swallowed hard, swallowed down all her terror, all her memories. "There is no weredragon here, my lord. You may search this tower if you will. You will find none."

He rose suddenly, shoving her off. She hit the table, then hit the floor, but this time Gloriae did not laugh. There would be no laughter so soon after the forbidden words had been uttered. Who of them will rape me today? Mirum thought. And will Irae kill me after, or before they've had their way?

"Show us to the tower top," Dies Irae said, all the softness gone from his voice. That voice was now cold, commanding, and sharp as Gloriae's blade. "Let us search this ruin."

Dies Irae left the hall, holding Mirum before him, and they stepped onto the staircase. His lieutenants walked behind: the cold and dainty Gloriae, all in steel and gold, and the gaunt, silent man whose face still hid behind his helm. The staircase wound up the tower, its steps chipped, centuries old. Mirum walked numbly, Irae's fingers digging into her arm. They walked round and round, up and up, and Mirum kept looking out