Jeid lowered his head. The wind fluttered his hair around his face. He winced to remember flying back to Oldforge only days ago—of Ciana betraying him, of the poisoned arrows thrusting into him. His wounds still stung, but worse was the pain inside him.

"Are there more, Father?" he said softly. "I told them that other dragons fly. I told them we can build a tribe, a tribe called Requiem. I told them tales to comfort them—when they were young, afraid, banished. I told them that our family is not diseased, that we carry a gift, that others in the world are like us." He raised his eyes and stared at his father. "I told them the stories you told me when I was young. But I lied. And you lied."

Eranor raised his eyebrows. "Lied, did I? Look at your shield, Jeid. Look at the shield that you yourself forged."

With a grunt, Jeid slung the shield off his back. The bronze disk was inlaid with silver stars, forming a dragon-shaped constellation. Those same stars shone in the sky every night.

"Simple stars," Jeid said. "A coincidence."

Eranor shook his head. "You were born seeing those stars at night. But when I was young, the Draco constellation did not shine." Eranor's eyes watered. "A great gift has come to the world—the gift of magic, of dragons. I do not believe that it blessed only our family. In villages and wandering tribes, they speak of others—others who were hunted, caught, killed. Zerra hunts them; so do other tribes. But some must have escaped. Some must have survived. Your children need to believe this . . . and so do I. Even their old grandfather, white-haired and frail, must cling to some hope. Requiem might be a dream, but let us live that dream."

Jeid slung the shield across his back again. "You are many years away from being frail, Father. And I wish I could believe too. But since . . . since they died . . ." His voice choked.

Eranor nodded and lowered his head, and his white beard cascaded like a waterfall. "I miss them too. As the stars blessed us with magic, so do they harbor the souls of our departed. Your wife and daughter look down upon you. And they are proud of you."

Another story, Jeid thought. Another comforting fairy tale.

He wanted to believe, wanted to hope too, but Jeid could not. Hope led to despair.

He climbed down the pillar of stone. He entered his small cave in the canyon. He opened his wooden chest, pulled out Requiem's old coat, and held the soft cotton against his cheek until darkness fell.

LAIRA

In the cold autumn morning, fog cloaking the camp and crows peering from naked trees, Laira stood tied to a stake, awaiting her death in fire.

The Goldtusk tribe gathered around the pyre, watching her, five hundred souls. They wore mammoth, wolf, and deer fur, and their strings of bone and clay beads hung around their necks and arms. Mist floated between them and their breath frosted. The tribe's totem pole rose behind upon a hillock, the gilded mammoth tusk upon its crest all but hidden in the fog. The rocs stood tethered to the pole, scratching the earth and cawing, anxious for a meal; the birds had seen enough burnings to know they would soon feast upon charred flesh.