Song of Dragons The Complete Trilogy - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,150

Requis, she narrowed her eyes and leaned down, so that her nose almost touched the parchment.

Gloriae gasped. Some words had been scraped off, it seemed. The parchment was thinner and rougher here. New words, their ink deeper, overwrote the old ones.

The weredragons are hideous beasts, the book read. But it seemed like the words "weredragons" and "hideous" were new, replacing older words, which had been scraped off. For all Gloriae knew, it could have once read, The Vir Requis are noble beasts.

She read the next line. They murdered the sons and daughters of Osanna, and destroyed their halls. Only it seemed like "murdered" and "destroyed" were new words. When Gloriae leaned close and squinted, she could see scratches where the older words had been effaced.

Meanwhile, an entirely new sentence was scrawled in the bottom margin. The ink was darker, the calligraphy similar but not identical. Dies Irae, noble king of Osanna, defeated the weredragons and banished their darkness from his kingdom of light.

"Well," Gloriae said, pushing the book aside in disgust, "Elder Beasts is useless too. Dies Irae rewrote this one too."

Kyrie groaned. "Stars. Will we find nothing useful here? Was the whole library rewritten to glorify Irae?"

Gloriae sighed. "The entire city was remade to glorify him. Maybe the entire empire. What's one library? But let's keep looking. We've come all the way here. I don't want to give up yet."

The afternoon sun cast long shadows into the library. They found candles between the shelves, lit them on the floor, and rummaged for new books. In every book, they found similar alterations. Some books had pages torn out. Others had new pages sewn in. Some were like Elder Beasts; their original pages still existed, but somebody had carefully scraped away some words, then replaced them with others. Gloriae and Kyrie read all afternoon, but found nothing about nightshades. The entire library painted a picture of a heroic Dies Irae, the defeater of weredragons, a noble hero whose line had ruled Osanna for two thousand years.

Finally Kyrie tossed aside a book in disgust. It crashed into a corner, raising a shower of dust. "Great," he said. "Just great. You know, that Dies Irae of yours is a real griffin's backside."

Gloriae scrunched her lips and stared at the Magical Creatures shelves. She tapped her fingers against her thigh. "He is, but we can still find information here."

Kyrie clutched his head. "How? We can't trust anything these books say. Even if we do find a book about nightshades, what's the use? It would probably just tell us that Dies Irae, ten feet tall with muscles of steel, single-handedly tamed the nightshades over breakfast, using nothing but his butter knife."

Gloriae allowed herself a small smile. "Funny, Kyrie. But one can still read between the lines."

They searched the books until they found one called Mythic Creatures of the Gray Age. Gloriae wasn't sure what the Gray Age was, but she was certain it was not during Dies Irae's reign; his reign was nothing but white, gold, and blood red.

"Let's try this one," Gloriae said. She opened the book and began reading.

This book, like the others, had been modified. For the first time, however, Gloriae found a chapter speaking of nightshades.

"Look, Kyrie!" she said. She grabbed his arm and pulled him over. They leaned over the book. On the parchment, a drawing of three nightshades stared up at them. The artist had skillfully captured the smokiness of their bodies, and the glint in their burning eyes. Bodies were drawn beneath them, mouths open, eyes blank, limbs limp.

"Those are our boys, all right," Kyrie said.

Calligraphy appeared on the opposite page. The text wasn't far off from what Kyrie had imagined. It didn't quite speak of Dies Irae taming the nightshades with a butter knife, but it did describe a fictional ancestor of his—Lir Irae—taming the nightshades with something called "The Beams".

Gloriae frowned over the calligraphy. "See here, Kyrie. Some of these words are old—the original text. Others are new."

In some areas, the ink looked old, cracked, fading. In other places, bits of parchment had been scraped clean, and new letters appeared here. These letters weren't as cracked and faded. It was truly a masterwork; Gloriae had to turn the pages in the light, squint, and touch the parchment to distinguish the old words from the new.

"This part about these Beams is the original text," Kyrie said. "But what are they?"

"Great rays of light, it seems," Gloriae said. They turned the page to see another illustration. It showed

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