Pillars of Dragonfire (30 page)

For so long, Vale had
wondered what battle she had meant. The battle against the seraphim in Shayeen?
Perhaps the battle to retrieve the Chest of Plenty? Or maybe the great war
against the harpies over Requiem?

And Vale knew now. He
understood.

He looked up at the
sky, and even though the sun shone, he could see it there. Issari's Star. A gleam
in the sky, always guiding him.

"This is my
battle," he spoke to that star. "A battle not against death but a
battle for life. This is my great task: to lead my people. To build them a new
home. To raise new halls of marble. To resurrect the lore of Requiem. Thank
you, Issari Seran, Lady of Starlight. Thank you for guiding me here. For
showing me your light."

The star shone, and he
heard her voice in his mind.

Our light will
always bless you, Vale Aeternum. You will never fly alone.

Vale lowered his head.

"I just wish you
could fly here with me, Tash," he whispered. "I miss you."

"Vale?"

The voice spoke behind
him, and Vale turned in the sky. He was so immersed in his thoughts he hadn't noticed
her approach. An orange dragon flew before him, eyes green and sad.

"Til
Eleison," he said.

"I found
something," she said. "I want to show you. Will you fly with
me?"

He narrowed his eyes,
suddenly worried. Had she seen more enemies? Beasts attacking? Seraphim flying
toward them? But there was no fear in Til's eyes, only sadness. He nodded and
they flew together.

They flew for a long
time, crossing the forests of Requiem, traveling north and leaving the column
far behind. They flew silently, sometimes looking at each other, sharing a
quick gaze, then flying onward.

The sun was low in the
sky when they saw an escarpment ahead. The cliffs soared, stretching across
Requiem, many miles long, and beyond them hills spread into the distance. A
waterfall gushed down the cliff into a river.

Til led the way,
gliding toward the escarpment. As they flew closer, Vale saw a canyon atop the
shelf of stone. It was a small canyon, smaller than the limestone mine where he
had worked back in Tofet. Several pillars of stone rose from it, naturally
carved, topped with pine trees. Many more trees leaned atop the canyon and even
grew, crooked and clinging, from its facades. Caves gaped open in the canyon
walls, leading into shadows.

The two dragons glided
into the canyon and landed on a floor strewn with boulders, some of them larger
than men. Here they shifted back into human forms.

Til gazed around, eyes
large. Her red hair billowed in a gust of wind. She had doffed her assortment
of armored plates, remaining in her fur pelts, but her sword still hung from
her belt.

"Do you know what
this place is?" she whispered.

Vale nodded. "The
escarpment. The place where, thousands of years ago, our ancestor—Jeid
Aeternum—founded the kingdom of Requiem. Before we had a column, before we had
a forest, before we had halls of marble and armor and swords, before our books
and before our songs, we had a canyon. We had a cave. We had a dream."

Til nodded, reached
out, and took his hands in hers. His were large hands, callused, hands that had
spent years swinging a pickaxe. Hers were smaller hands, slender, pale, though
hands that had swung her sword too many times.

"We stand on holy
ground," she whispered. "A man and woman. Like King Aeternum and
Queen Laira from the legends. We can do this again, Vale. Like they did. Build
a kingdom. Raise halls of stone."

Her eyes shone, and
Vale tried to imagine Tash standing here with him. She would smile at him crookedly,
and the wind would play with her long brown hair and silken trousers, and the
jewel in her navel would shine. She'd mock him, kiss him, and love him, and he
would be happy—like the joy he had first felt with her, the only time he'd
felt true joy.

And he thought of his
father, the wisest, kindest man Vale had ever known. He wished Jaren could
stand here with him, holding his staff, speaking of their old tales, granting
him wisdom and strength.

He thought of Meliora,
the sister he had known for less than a year, the sister he would always love.
He wished she too were here, that she had lived to see Requiem reborn, that she
had lived to be his sister in times of peace.

He thought of so many
others—countless slain in the wars, sacrificing their lives so that others may
live, so that the stars may shine upon them again. Each life—a world. Each
life—worth as much as a nation. So many lights gone. So many who would never
see their kingdom rise again.

"Your eyes are
sad," Til said.

He looked at her. For
perhaps the first time, Vale truly looked at her. Til Eleison. A woman who had
suffered, who had fought, who stood with him on hallowed ground, vowing to
forever fight with him. To share with him this battle Issari had commanded him
to fight. To share with him this life.

"We lost so
many," he said. "And I don't know how we can ever feel joy
again."

Til embraced him, and
when the wind blew again, her hair tickled his face, the same orange color as
her dragon form. Her body was warm against his, soothing, soft.

"We will still
feel joy." She touched his cheek. "Sadness will always fill us.
Sadness does not always leave the souls of those who mourn. But that is not the
same as never feeling joy again. Joy can always be found, even in wounded
hearts, as flowers can still grow from ashen fields."

They rose from the
canyon, and upon the escarpment, between the trees, they found a great stone
statue, carved as a wild dragon—an ancient statue, perhaps carved by the very
first Vir Requis, those who had lived wild in the forest before they had a
kingdom.

Vale and Til sat on the
dragon's head, both in human form, and held each other in the cold. Silently,
they watched the sun set and the stars emerge, and for a brief few hours, here
in the dark with her, Vale felt joy.

 
 
ELORY

The rain fell, and the sun
set, and the sun rose, and the stars moved across the sky. And they lived. And
they built.

Spring came to Requiem,
and for the first time in five hundred years, leaves budded and flowers bloomed
under a sky of dragons.

Throughout that spring,
dragons toiled. For generations, they had toiled in Tofet, learning how to
carve bricks, plow fields, raise great halls. They had worked under the whip
there, but here they worked with joy. Now they plowed fields and sowed grains
to feed themselves, not cruel masters. Now they built homes of stone to live
in, not great temples to cruel gods. Slowly a city rose here from the ruins,
and they named it Nova Vita, the same name as the ancient city that had once
risen here. New life. New light.

Saplings rose in the
ravaged forest. And new columns rose with them. One by one, the dragons raised
them—great pillars of marble, twins to King's Column. It would be years,
perhaps, before the palace of Requiem stood again in its old glory. But rise
again it would, and a king once more would sit on its throne.

It was in this spring
that they chose this king and crowned him.

The people of Requiem
gathered before their marble columns that day, dressed in green and silver, the
colors of their kingdom. Before them he stood, King's Column rising at his
back—Vale Aeternum.

The heir of Requiem's
ancient, royal dynasty wore silvery armor and a green cloak. A longsword hung
at his side, its pommel shaped as a dragon's claw—a sword first borne by Queen
Fidelity centuries ago. Vale's dark hair had grown longer, falling across his
ears, and his beard was thick. No longer was he gaunt and haggard, for the
spring had strengthened him, and he stood straight and strong before his
people.

He looks like a
great warrior king of old,
Elory thought, gazing at her brother.
But
this is a time of peace.

She walked across the
marble tiles they had lain out around King's Column. Her gown, woven of dark
green velvet, whispered with every step. Around them, beyond the marble
columns, rustled the young birches of King's Forest. Between the trees,
spreading for miles, stood the children of Requiem in human forms, though many
flew above as dragons too, gazing down upon them.

Elory approached her
brother and stood at his side. She faced the crowd—the hundreds of thousands
who stood before them. Suddenly Elory was afraid. She had never faced so many
staring eyes before, never spoken to so many people. Sweat trickled down her
back, and her pulse quickened.

Yet what have I to
fear?
she thought, feeling silly.
I faced armies in battle. I'm among
friends.

"Today we crown a
new king!" she cried out. "We have chosen Vale Aeternum, son of
Jaren, heir of our lost kings and queens, to wear a new crown, to sit upon a
new throne. If anyone objects to his rule, speak now. For our time of tyranny has
ended, and only one who is loved shall rule us."

They all stared, the
nation of Requiem, silent for long moments.

Finally one voice rose.

"Long live Vale
Aeternum!" cried a man.

Another joined the
chant, then another, and soon thousands of voices rose together. "Long
live Vale Aeternum!"

Elory blinked tears
away from her eyes. She looked at her brother, smiling at him softly.

"Kneel, Vale, son
of dragons."

He knelt before her on
the marble tiles. In the light of King's Column, Elory placed a crown on his
head. She had forged it herself in her dragonfire, had shaped it into many
dragons flying together. She had made this crown from gold found in the
mountains of Requiem, but she had mixed iron into it, taken from the shackles
of a slave—a reminder of their enslavement, a memory they must never forget.

"Rise, King Vale
Aeternum," she said.

He rose before her,
King of Requiem, and turned toward the crowd.

They bowed, a nation, sweeping
across the hills and valleys. Above in the sky, dragons sang their song. A
prayer rose among the people, soft at first, rising louder.

Elory clasped her
brother's hand, and they sang the prayer with their people.

"As the leaves
fall upon our marble tiles, as the breeze rustles the birches beyond our
columns, as the sun gilds the mountains above our halls—know, young child of
the woods, you are home, you are home. Requiem! May our wings forever find your
sky."

The sun set, and the
sun rose. The rains fell, and snows covered the land, and spring rose again.

And they sang.

And they built.

And they lived.

Autumn came to Requiem,
and grains swayed golden in the fields, and fruits and vegetables ripened, and
ale brewed. There was a rich harvest that year, overflowing with squashes,
sweet apples, and green peas. Some fields yielded only a handful of crops;
these the Chest of Plenty quickly replicated. For the first time in centuries,
the Vir Requis patted full bellies.

These were busy times,
times of building, nurturing, remembering. But many days, Elory remained in her
home, in the small brick house she had built with Lucem. Often she simply sat
watching her husband as he walked through the garden on his wooden leg,
inspecting the flowers, filling birdfeeders with seed, leaving lumps of bread
on the fence for the squirrels. The hero of Requiem, the boy who had scaled the
wall, who had slain the great bird Ziz and several archangels—he had become a
gardener, and he had never seemed happier.

"I lost my
ear," she would joke with him, "so you just had to lose your leg to
one-up me."

He would smile at this
joke—she told it every now and then—and always replied with, "Somewhere
your ear met my leg and is feeling rather envious."

Yet there was always
sadness to their smiles. And even in the beauty of autumn, as they sat together
in their armchair, sharing hot cider, the sadness dwelled. Even as snow fell,
glittering outside as a field of stars, and icicles gleamed as jewels, and many
lanterns hung from trees and homes, the sadness remained.

Because we are
broken,
Elory thought. And she did not mean her ear or his leg. Something
had broken inside them in the inferno of Tofet, something she knew could never
mend. Something that a warm home, a nation at peace, a world of beauty could
not heal.

"We are
broken," she whispered to him one night, as they sat gazing out the window
at the rain.

He held her in his
arms. "Then let us make something whole."

Spring bloomed across
Requiem, and the scent of flowers and song of birds filled the air, when Elory
gave birth to her daughter. The child had her dark hair, Lucem's blue eyes, and
tiny fingers that Elory loved to kiss.

"I name you
Liora," she whispered to the babe, "for you're brave and beautiful like
my sister."

The sun set and the sun
rose. The dry leaves fell, and the snow glided down, and spring bloomed, and
great halls of marble rose among the birches. The sound of laughter filled her
house. And still the sadness lingered.

One autumn day, Elory
took her daughter in her arms, and she walked through the woods of Requiem. It
was a chilly day, and many dry leaves rustled among the birches, and the sounds
of song and prayer rose from humble homes. Elory walked for a long time,
leaving the city behind, and stepped onto the hill where they had buried her
sister.

The wind played with
her long brown hair. She stood, holding her daughter, gazing at Meliora's
grave.

"I don't know how
to go on," she whispered to her sister. "I don't know how to feel
joy. I don't know how to forget."

Elory closed her eyes,
cringing with sudden pain. Again she could feel it—the flaming whip against
her back. Again she could see them—the bodies on the lances, a forest of dead
in Tofet. Again she heard the cries of the harpies, and again she saw dragons
falling like the rain. The pain felt too strong, the memories too real, and
Elory's head spun and she could barely breathe.