Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1) (21 page)

He slammed against the
cobblestones, and the pain was too great. The pain drove his magic out of him,
like a punch to the chest drives the air from the lungs.

The visions vanished.

His magic faded.

He lay on the ground, a
human again.

Firelight blinded him,
and the seraphim swooped down, cutting, kicking, shouting, laughing. Their
chains swung around him. Their manacles snapped around his limbs. Shani herself
snapped his collar around his neck again.

"Fight me!"
Vale cried. "Kill me! Let me die in battle."

They hoisted him onto
his feet, and Vale roared, tried to summon his magic, to become a dragon again,
but he was collared once more, his magic lost.

"Hold him up,"
Ishtafel said, stepping off his chariot. "Bring him before me."

Vale's eyelids
fluttered. Blood covered him. He struggled to remain conscious. Shani gripped
his arm, digging her fingers into an open wound, manhandling him forward. Other
seraphim goaded him with spears. They dragged him across the cobblestones,
wrapped in chains, bringing him before the prince.

Ishtafel stared at
him—more than a foot taller, twice as heavy, but no longer fair. His armor was
charred, and welts rose across his bare arms—the burns of dragonfire. Blood
seeped down his cheek from a claw's strike.

They are deities of
light, immortals, godly creatures,
Vale thought.
But I hurt one. They
can be hurt. They can be killed.

"Do you cower from
battle?" Vale spat blood. "Will you not fight me, chariot to dragon,
man to man?"

"Kneel before your
master!" Shani shouted. She twisted Vale's arm and kicked the back of his
knee, forcing him to kneel.

Ishtafel stared down at
him, ignoring his wound. "Dragon? Man?" He shook his head. "I
see only a slave . . . and slaves are not worthy of death in battle. No. Yours
will be a far more amusing death." A grin spread across the prince's face.
"Load him onto the chariot! We will nail him onto the ziggurat's crest,
and we will drink wine as the vultures drink his blood."

The seraphim roared
with joy. They tugged Vale up. They shoved him into the chariot, kicking his
back, and all he felt was the pain, and all he saw was the fire.

 
 
ELORY

Elory huddled in the shadows
of the pleasure pit, fear coiling inside her like an icy serpent.

"You're not paying
attention!" Tash glared at her. "I'm trying to teach you how to
seduce a man, yet you're just staring at the ceiling. Eyes to me!"

Yet how could Elory
focus on her lessons? As always, the pleasure pit was a den of shadows, candlelight,
and the purple smoke that swirled from the hookahs of bubbling hintan. The
other pleasure slaves lounged on rugs and piles of pillows, eyes glazed, some
giggling, others barely able to do more than drool.

"Focus!" Tash
said. Anger filled her brown eyes, but fear too. The slave—ruler of the
pleasure pit—knew that if Elory failed to learn, failed to please Ishtafel, it
would be both of them burned in the bull. "Now, show me what you've
learned. Seduce me with your eyes alone. Flirt with those lashes!"

Elory tried, demurely
lowering her gaze as Tash had taught her, then glancing up, blushing, and
looking away with a shy smile. But her movements felt forced, fake, clumsy. How
could she possibly focus on seducing Tash now when above her, upon the surface
of the city, the chariots raced, and her fate was being decided?

Meliora could help but
only if she won. If Ishtafel beat her . . .

Elory had the feeling
that all the batting eyelashes, sweet caresses, and gentle kisses Tash had
taught her would not save her from Ishtafel's wrath for long.

"You look like an
alley cat who stumbled across a bulldog." Tash flicked Elory's forehead.
"Think! Focus! We've only a few days left of training, and I'm not sending
you up to the prince like this. I—"

The door slammed open
across the pit.

Tash and Elory spun
around. The other slaves raised their heads, blinked feebly, then flumped back
onto their beds.

Two seraphim stepped
into the smoky den—palace guards in breastplates, helmets hiding their faces,
only their glowing eyes visible. They wore the Eye of Saraph upon their
shields—the personal guards of the dynasty.

Elory felt the blood
drain from her face.

She knew at once: the
race was over.

"We seek the slave
named Elory," one seraph said. "Who among you is Elory of
Tofet?"

Elory stared, frozen in
terror, unable to even breathe.

Tash, however, leaped
to her feet, placed her hands on her hips, and glared at the seraphim. "It
hasn't been a week yet!" She stomped forward, stepping over smoking
slaves, and came to stand before the seraphim—two feet shorter, half their
width, but raising her chin high. "I was given a week to train her. We're
not ready. We—"

The seraph struck her
with the shaft of his spear.

Tash cried out, lip
bloody, and stumbled to the ground. She lay, staring up in horror and rage,
blood dripping.

"If you don't shut
your mouth, we bash it." The seraph spat. "Don't think because you
were given dominion over this den of hintan that you're anything but a
slave." The seraphim marched over the fallen Tash. "Elory! We seek
Elory. Step forward, slave."

Elory rose to her feet.
Her heart thumped in her chest, and her legs felt weak.

It's time. One of
them won. One of them will claim me.

"Is the race
over?" she whispered, stepping toward the seraphim. "I'm Elory. Who
won?"

"Silence!"
The seraph who had struck Tash reached toward her. "To me."

Sweat on her brow,
Elory stepped closer, knelt, and tried to help the fallen Tash. Both guards,
however, grabbed Elory's arms and yanked her forward. "Come with us."

She gave Tash a last look.
The bloodied slave stared back, eyes huge with fear, and then the guards
dragged Elory out of the pit.

As they climbed the
stairs, Elory's mind raced as surely as the chariots. Who did these guards
serve—Meliora or Ishtafel? Would she find haven with her half sister, a
Princess of Saraph with the blood and kindness of Requiem within her, or was
Elory doomed to suffer Ishtafel's cruelty—cruelty she might be unable to hold
at bay even with her charms and seduction?

They emerged from the
belly of the earth. They walked along a promenade, its northern side lined with
columns, revealing the city. This was the place Elory had once walked at night,
contemplating escape. Now sunlight fell through the portico, and the city
roared.

Elory couldn't see far
past the gardens, but she glimpsed people standing on roofs, and she heard a
great cry from thousands. Chariots of fire flew above, and seraphim circled in
the sky.

"Slay the
beast!" people cried. "Slay the dragon!"

Before Elory could see
or hear more, the guards dragged her away from the corridor and onto another
staircase. They kept climbing through the ziggurat, floor after floor, the
guards silent, and still the chants rose outside the window.

"Slay the dragon,
slay the dragon!"

The thousands of voices
cried as one.

They're killing one
of us.
Elory shuddered. Someone who rebelled. A dragon who stood against the
masters. She stared out into the sky as they passed a window, staring
north—north toward the land of Tofet, toward Requiem, a land of pain and a
land of memory.

Ease his pain, stars
of my forebears
, she silently prayed.
If a dragon is to die, let him die
easy, and let his soul rise to your light.

Finally, when Elory was
winded and her legs ached, they reached a golden doorway near the ziggurat's
crest.

Over the past few days,
Elory had been to both Ishtafel's and Meliora's chambers. She could not
remember whose door this was, and her heart galloped, and sweat trickled down
her back.

"Go kneel before
your new owner!" the guards said.

The door opened.

Elory stepped into the
chamber . . . and fell to her knees. She lowered her head. Her breath shook,
and her tears flowed.

Thank the stars.
A sob escaped her.
Thank the stars of Requiem.

Before her in the
chamber of gold and jewels stood Princess Meliora.

"You won,"
Elory whispered. "You won, my lady. You won the race."

Welts, blisters, and
cuts covered Meliora. A bruise stretched across her cheek, and the tips of her
hair were burnt. Her kalasiri was tattered and charred. Perhaps worst of all,
one of her wings was cloven, bleeding, missing many of its feathers. But
despite her sordid condition, the princess stepped toward Elory and pulled her
into her arms.

For a long moment, they
stood together in silence, holding each other. Elory pressed her cheek against
Meliora's chest, closed her eyes, and for the first time in her life, she felt
safe.

Finally Meliora spoke.
"You're in danger here, Elory."

Still held in Meliora's
arms, Elory raised her head and looked up into Meliora's eyes. "My lady?
Will Ishtafel try to—"

"I will protect
you from Ishtafel." Meliora's face hardened. "It's my mother whom I
fear. She tried to have my last two slaves burned in the bronze bull. She
forbade me from bringing more slaves here. If she finds you . . ." Meliora
shook her head. "I'll have to find you work in the ziggurat. Far from
Ishtafel and my mother. Somewhere where they won't see you, but where I can
visit, help you, find you a good life. I'll do everything I can to protect you,
Elory. I don't know how, but I will."

Elory pulled back from
the embrace and looked toward the balcony. She took a few steps forward, moving
between a giltwood table, a silver statue of a crane, and a vase full of dried
rushes. She stood between porphyry columns and gazed out at the sunlit city.

Shayeen. The City of
Kings. A glorious city of light and beauty, of temples that soared to the sky,
lush gardens, obelisks tipped with platinum, soaring statues of the gods that
rose as tall as the fallen columns of Requiem.

A city of chains.

A city of blood.

And on the horizon,
across the river—Tofet. Six hundred thousand of her kind labored there in
chains, digging the bitumen and forming bricks that had built this city.

"Slay the
dragon!" the crowd of seraphim still chanted below.

They're going to
kill one of us.
Elory lowered her head, the hot wind billowing her cotton
shift.
They're slowly killing all of us.

"Elory?"
Meliora asked.

Elory spun around to
face the princess again. The sunlight shone upon the seraph's pale hair and the
tips of her wings. And for the first time, Elory saw it. Meliora had the golden
eyes of a seraph, the pupils shaped as sunbursts. She had the wings, the tall
frame, the beauty, the golden-toned skin of a seraph. She looked so much like
one of those cruel deities that at first Elory had doubted her father's story,
had doubted that this immortal princess could share her blood.

But now, finally, Elory
saw it.

It was the softness to Meliora's
face—not the iciness in the faces of other seraphim. It was the kindness in
her voice. It was the light in her eyes—not the searing light of the sun but a
soft, good light. Starlight.

It's true,
Elory
thought, and fresh tears budded in her eyes.
She's half Vir Requis. She's my
father's daughter. My older sister. She's the Princess of Saraph, yet she's one
of us.

"My lady."
Elory's voice was barely a whisper. "I'm saved, but six hundred thousand
Vir Requis cry out in pain, in chains. Across your empire, the people of
Requiem cry for aid." Elory stepped closer, trembling now. "Our
people, Meliora. They need you. They need their daughter."

Meliora's eyes
narrowed. Pain, fear, and confusion seemed to battle within them. "I
cannot save all weredragons." She lowered her head, the charred tips of her
hair brushing her chest. "I'm not as powerful as you think, Elory. I've
never even been to Tofet until a few days ago, and I cannot save the
weredragons there, I—"

"Vir Requis."
Elory stepped closer, hesitated, then dared to reach out and hold Meliora's
hands. "The word
weredragon
is cruel to our ears. A slur. The name
our enemies have used for millennia to demean us, to portray us as monsters. We
are Vir Requis, Meliora. Children of Requiem. Our nation." Elory blinked,
her eyes damp. "
Our
nation, Meliora. Yours and mine."

Meliora pulled her
hands free from Elory's grasp and stepped back.

"I did not create
the land of Tofet." Meliora's eyes narrowed further. "That is the
work of Ishtafel and my mother. Not mine."

"Yet it is your
land!" Elory stepped closer again, heart hammering, knees swaying.
"Your people! Meliora . . ." Elory took a shuddering breath. This
truth had to be told. This was a secret she could no longer bear. "My
father told me, and when I first saw you, I didn't believe him. But I see it
now. I see it in your eyes. You're one of us. Meliora . . ." She trembled.
"We share the same father. You're half Vir Requis. You're my sister."

 
 
MELIORA

She stared down at her
slave, tilted her head, and couldn't help it.

Meliora guffawed.

"What did you
say?" she whispered.

Sunlight flowed between
her columns, glittering on a room of splendor: silver vases, statues of gold
and ivory, giltwood tables, platinum candelabra, priceless mosaics, jeweled
incense holders, and all the comforts of an empire. Among this wealth stood
Elory: a thin slave, shorter than Meliora's shoulders, collared and scarred.

A weredragon. A mere
child.

"You're my
sister," Elory repeated, reaching out to again grasp Meliora's hands.
"Your father is Jaren, a slave from Tofet. He's my father too. He knew
your mother when he worked in the palace thirty years ago, and—"