Blood of Requiem (Song of Dragons, Book 1)

18. DIES IRAE

DIES IRAE

Dies Irae stood in the courtyard of another fort on another cold, dreary hill and gazed down upon the lashed body of a shepherd. He admired the bruises and welts covering the man and smiled.

"Gloriae, your work is beautiful," he said.

His daughter stood by him. The wind streamed her hair and rustled the weeds between the cobblestones. Ice filled her eyes. She stared at the moaning peasant and spoke, her face blank. "He was hiding information about the weredragons. He got what he deserved. There is no beauty to this, Father. I took my information with my lash and my boots. There is beauty to the white towers of Confutatis and her banners that fly golden. This?" She nodded her head at the tortured man. "This is no art; it is justice, harsh and unforgiving."

The shepherd groaned at her feet, blood trickling across the cobblestones. Dies Irae caressed his daughter's cheek, so soft and cold. "I've taught you well, Gloriae."

He nodded at his guards, and they dragged the man away, leaving a trail of blood. Dies Irae caressed his mace, this new left arm. Benedictus had eluded him for too long, but he could not hide forever. When shepherds saw the monstrous shapes against the stars, they would speak, or they would die.

"They fly to Sequestra Mountains in the west, and they're hurt," Gloriae said, staring at those stains of blood. Her face was blank. "Soon we'll be upon them.

Dies Irae nodded. "Benedictus, Kyrie Eleison... and Lacrimosa."

Lacrimosa. Dies Irae loathed displays of emotion, but now he twisted his lips into a small, thin smile. Lacrimosa—of pale skin, lavender eyes, and moonlit hair. He remembered how he'd bruised that skin, filled those eyes with tears, pulled that hair. His blood boiled at the memory. He wanted to hurt her again, to tear her clothes, grab her breasts, hear her scream.

Gloriae looked to the west, over the crumbling fort to the distant mountains and forests. Dark clouds covered the sky, elk herded in the distance, and the grassy plains undulated in the wind. "There are those three... and there is a fourth," she said. "A red one. A female."

Dies Irae stared at his daughter and frowned. A red dragon. A female. Could it be? Dies Irae clenched his jaw. There was only one such living weredragon.

"The shepherd spoke of her?" Dies Irae asked, struggling to keep the rage from his voice.

Gloriae nodded. "He did, and I saw her myself. Her name is Agnus Dei."

Dies Irae turned from his daughter and stared into the distance. Vultures were circling under the clouds. A cold wind chilled him. Yes, Agnus Dei.

Two girls, one dark and wild, one fair and cold. One could shift, become a red monster. The other had no curse; she would remain forever beautiful and pure. Agnus Dei and Gloriae. Daughters of Lacrimosa. Benedictus believed they were his own; Dies Irae knew better.

Does Gloriae know? Dies Irae thought in sudden fear. Does she know the truth, know that Agnus Dei is her sister, that Lacrimosa is her mother? He stared at his daughter, seeking the answer in her eyes, and saw only steel. No, Gloriae did not know. That was good. Dies Irae loved her more than anything; he would shield this horrible truth from her. If she knew, it would crush her.

Agnus Dei, he thought, staring at his iron fist. The cursed, monstrous twin. You I will not kill, no. You will serve as my mount, daughter. You are fairer even than Volucris, the king of griffins. I will ride the last living weredragon, conqueror of the race.

Dies Irae turned and walked away. He carefully avoided the blood on the cobblestones; his boots were priceless, those boots made from the golden scales of a Vir Requis child. Two of his men stepped forward, eyes lowered, and placed his samite robe around his shoulders.