Blood of Requiem (Song of Dragons, Book 1)

29. LACRIMOSA

 
LACRIMOSA

She saw Confutatis at dawn, rising from the east, shining like a rising sun.

Lacrimosa blinked feebly. She struggled to raise her head, but could not. Volucris's talons clutched her, and the winds lashed her. She was in human form today, limbs bound and mouth gagged. Her dress was tattered, her body bruised and bloody, and her hair streamed behind her like the banners Dies Irae and his men bore. The other griffins flew around her, shrieking at the sight of their home.

Gloriae too flew there, Lacrimosa saw, but her daughter never approached her. The other men mocked and beat her. Gloriae remained at a distance, and Lacrimosa thought she knew why. Dies Irae ordered her away from me. He fears she'll learn the truth... that she's my daughter, and that I love her.

"Ben," Lacrimosa whispered, lips cracked. Though her hand was so weak she could barely move it, she clutched the pendant that hung around her neck, a silver pendant shaped like a bluebell, their flower. "Fly away, Ben. Fly away from this place."

Confutatis glittered, growing closer, a city of white spires, marble columns, and statues of Dies Irae with his fist upon his chest. A city of a million souls, cobbled streets snaking between proud buildings and temples, a city swarming with countless griffins—griffins atop every wall and tower and fortress. The Marble City. City of the Sun. Jewel of Osanna. Confutatis had many names, but to Lacrimosa, it was one thing: a prison.

"Turn into your reptilian form," Dies Irae's voice spoke above, colder than the wind. "I will have the city see your monstrosity."

She considered disobeying him, but dared not; that would only mean more cuts from the spears, more pain, more ilbane rubbed into her wounds. She shifted into a dragon. Volucris grunted at the greater weight, tightened his talons around her, and flapped his wings harder. A tear fled Lacrimosa's eye and fell to the fields of barley and wheat below.

When they flew above the first walls, Dies Irae's men blew trumpets, and the griffins cried in triumph. Heroes returning in glory, Lacrimosa thought. I am their prize.

Confutatis rose upon hills of granite and grass. Three towering walls surrounded the city, moats between them. Guards covered the walls, armed with arrows and catapults and leashed griffins. When they saw their emperor, they slammed fists against their breastplates and called his name. Behind the walls, the city folk saw the banners of Dies Irae, and they bowed. All looked upon her, soldiers and commoners, fear and disgust in their eyes.

"Weredragon," she heard them whisper, a vile word. "Weredragon."

Once a wise king had ruled Confutatis, she remembered, a kindly old man with a long white beard. She would visit here as a child, tug that white beard, and run along the cobbled streets. Once Requiem and Confutatis had shone together—proud, ancient allies. But that had been years ago, before darkness had covered Lacrimosa's world.

Clutched in Volucris's talons, she watched the city below. They flew over courtyards where soldiers drilled with swords and spears, forts where great walls rose, towers where archers stood, and stables of griffins. She saw catapults and chariots, armored horses, gold and steel everywhere. Statues of Dies Irae stood at every corner, statues of him raising a sword, or swinging a mace, or riding a griffin. Banners of war fluttered from every roof, white and gold and red, swords and spears embroidered upon them.

So many soldiers, she thought. So many things of war. And yet the war had ended, had it not? Dies Irae had destroyed the Vir Requis, killed every one other than a handful. Why did steel and military might still fill these streets? Why did she see more swords and shields than flowers or trees? What enemy did Dies Irae fight now, and what peril could justify this city? No, not a city; Confutatis was a huge fortress now, a barracks of a million people all taught to worship their emperor and hate their enemies.

A palace rose upon the highest point of Confutatis. Golden roofs topped its white towers. A hundred marble statues stood upon its battlements.

A square stretched out before the palace, five hundred yards wide and twice as long, marble columns lining it. The palace's greatest statue stood here, a hundred feet tall and gilded—a statue of Dies Irae in armor, holding aloft a sword. The statue's cold gaze stared upon the city, proud and judging.

Dies Irae and his griffins flew over the palace towers, and Lacrimosa saw a cobbled courtyard below. The griffins descended, and Volucris tossed her down. She slammed into the cobblestones, banging her shoulder, and bit back a cry of pain. Walls surrounded her, archers and griffins atop their battlements. A statue of Dies Irae stood upon a column, glaring down at her.

"Collar her," the real Dies Irae said, dismounting his griffin. He marched across the courtyard toward a gateway. "Muzzle her and chain her to the column."

She raised her head and tried to stand up. A dozen men rushed forward, kicked her, and slammed shields against her, knocking her head to the ground. They closed an iron collar around her neck, muzzled her, and chained her to a column.

"Gloriae, help me," Lacrimosa tried to say, but could not speak with the muzzle. Her daughter stood across the courtyard, eyes cold and arms crossed, staring at her. She hates me, Lacrimosa knew.

Dies Irae approached Gloriae and spoke to her. The two walked through the gateway, leaving the courtyard, capes fluttering. The gates slammed shut behind them, leaving Lacrimosa at the mercy of their soldiers. Those soldiers leered, and several kicked her, spat at her, and mocked her.

Lacrimosa mewled and tried to free herself, but could not. The collar hurt her neck, and she dared not become human; those kicking boots would kill her without her scales offering their meager protection. She weakly flapped her tail at the men, but they only laughed and kicked her harder.

She lowered her head. Fly away from here, Ben, she thought. I cannot bear this fate to be yours too. I cannot live if I see you too chained and beaten. Fly away, Ben, fly and be with Kyrie and Agnus Dei. Never return here.

Finally the soldiers tired and left the courtyard. The archers above kept their arrows pointed at her, staring down with narrowed eyes.

They all think I'm a beast, a monster.

She closed her eyes and tried to remember Requiem, the golden leaves upon the birches, the marble columns, the courtyards where she would walk with Benedictus, dressed in gowns and jewels. As night fell, she let those memories fill her, and her tears fell like jewels in the starlight.