Song of Dragons The Complete Trilogy - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,155

object. She wanted to flee.

"Please," she said. "Don't shove me. I can't heal him."

He placed his foot on her head, and pushed it toward the child. He forced her face near the wound. It stank of rot. The maggots in the blood swirled. Lacrimosa grimaced and tried to pull away, but Volucris held her face up to the wound.

"Please, release me," she said.

The child was shifting, trying to caw. His eyes fluttered.

"Ma," he seemed to say. "Ma. Caw! Ma."

Lacrimosa closed her eyes, the stench of the wound in her nostrils. The child would die, she knew. Son of Volucris, prince of griffins, heir to these islands. An innocent child, perhaps the first griffin born in freedom. Lacrimosa thought of all those griffins born into slavery—first in Requiem, then in Osanna. How could she let this one die? She bore responsibility to them. As she wanted to rebuild Requiem, she owed Leonis a debt too.

"Ma," the cub cawed again. "Caw. Ma. Ma."

He was in pain. He was weeping. Suddenly it no longer mattered that he was a prince, that Lacrimosa's fathers had enslaved his people. All that mattered was that he was a child. A child in pain, a child dying. Wasn't that the entire gravity of it?

She felt tears gather once more in her eyes. One tear fell, splashed into the wound, and raised steam.

Volucris and the other griffins all cried. The cub yelped and tried to move, but was too weak. Another tear fell from Lacrimosa, hit the wound, and more steam rose. My tears hurt him, she thought, but she could not curb them. They fell into the wound, hissing and steaming, as the griffins shrieked.

And then Lacrimosa noticed that when the steam cleared, the wound looked better. The pus drained from it. New blood filled the wound, and then it scabbed over.

"Ma," the griffin cub said, and his voice was relieved, some of the pain cleared from it.

Volucris released her, and Lacrimosa raised her head. She looked at the cub in amazement. The infection had left him! He looked up at her, his eyes clear.

"Dragon tears," Lacrimosa whispered. "They heal griffins."

Volucris nodded. Then he tossed back his head and cried in joy. The other griffins did the same. The young prince rose to his feet, limped, and then flapped his wings. He flew a few feet, landed, and squeaked.

Lacrimosa laughed and cried. Requiem enslaved you, she thought. With our tears we find some salvation.

The cub embraced his parents. Then Volucris moved toward Lacrimosa. He knelt before her, bowed his head, and looked into her eyes.

Lacrimosa smiled.

"Will Leonis be our ally? Will Requiem and Leonis fight together, fight against Dies Irae?"

Volucris gave her a long stare. He looked to the west. He looked at his son. Then he walked to the eggs, and retrieved from between them the candlestick. He placed it at Lacrimosa's feet.

She shifted into human form and lifted the candlestick. It seemed made of pure gold, and when she turned it in the sun, its emeralds glinted.

"It's beautiful," she said. "Is this a gift for saving your son?"

He squawked and pawed the nest. There was more he wanted to tell her. Lacrimosa examined the candlestick more closely. When she turned it over, she saw words engraved into its base. Summoning Stick. Lacrimosa gasped.

"I've heard of the Summoning Stick," she said. "Only two were ever made, one of silver, one of gold. When lit, they call for aid."

Volucris nodded. Lacrimosa embraced his great, downy head.

"Thank you, Volucris, King of Griffins," she said. "When I need your aid, I will light the candlestick." She drew back and gave him a solemn stare. "When we rebuild Requiem, there will be war with Irae. We will need your wings."

Volucris nodded, staring at her, and she saw the answer in his eyes.

Our wings are yours.

AGNUS DEI

At the bottom of the staircase, Agnus Dei froze. The tunnels under Requiem stretched before her, all darkness and moaning wind. She held her dagger with one hand, her makeshift torch in the other.

"How deep are the scrolls?" she whispered. She wasn't sure why she whispered. Surely the Poisoned—those Vir Requis turned scaly and webbed with Dies Irae's black magic—no longer dwelled here. But Agnus Dei found it difficult to speak any louder. Just in case.

"They were buried deep in the darkness," Father said, "to protect them from snow, fire, rain... or war."

Agnus Dei glanced at him. She reminded herself that Father was more than just an annoying, gruff old man who hummed and creaked