Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1) (22 page)

"Stop it!"
Meliora shouted, surprised at herself. She should be laughing at this, shaking
her head in wonder, not shouting. And yet the shock coursed through her, and
she couldn't curb her anger. She hissed and balled her hands into fists.
"You've gone too far, Elory. I've saved you from my brother, but you
cannot say such things."

The tears flowed down
Elory's cheeks, and the girl was shaking so wildly she looked ready to fall.
"But it's true! I can see it in you. I can see the stars of Requiem in
your eyes. Your father is not King Harash, Meliora. He's Jaren of Requiem, a
man who once loved your mother, Queen Kalafi. You can help us! You can join
us!" Elory sobbed, reaching out to her. "You can save us."

"I am not one of
you!" Meliora shoved Elory's hands away, and now she too was trembling.
"My father died. He died when I was a girl." The old pain, the fury
rose inside her. "My mother killed my father. She poisoned him, murdered
him! How dare you mock his memory?"

Elory blinked, shaking
her head. "I . . . Meliora! You—"

"You will not call
me that!" Meliora glared down at the girl. "You forget yourself. You
will call me 'my lady' or 'Your Grace,' not my name. I saved you from Ishtafel,
but I am not your friend, and I am certainly not your sister." Through her
tears, Meliora laughed bitterly. "And I am not a weredragon."

Elory stared at her,
eyes wide, cheeks pale. "A weredragon?" she whispered. "Is that
what you still think of us? Of the blood that runs through your veins? You can
become a dragon too. I know it. I know it must be true. You wear no collar, and
the magic fills you." Elory stepped forward yet again, reaching out to
hold Meliora's arms. "Reach for it! Reach for the magic, summon it, become
a dragon. You'll know then that I speak truth, Meliora, that—"

Meliora struck her.

She had not meant it.
She shocked herself. She had never struck anyone before, not in all her life.
She gasped with the surprise, and her hand stung, and Elory fell to the floor,
her cheek white and red. The slave gazed up at her, eyes wide, mouth open.

I'm sorry,
Meliora thought.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

She did not understand.
She could not! None of this made sense. Why was Elory saying these things? Why
did fear grow in Meliora, fear that . . . that this was true?

No. No!

She closed her eyes,
shaking.

My father was King Harash!
My mother murdered him!

She dug her fingernails
into her palm, eyes screwed shut.

I flew in shadows,
flew over birch forests, flew toward marble columns, a great dragon, my
comrades at my sides.

"No." Her
breath shuddered in her lungs. "No. No! You're lying. You're lying!"
Her eyes snapped open, and she stared at Elory. The slave still lay on the
floor, staring up at her, blood beading on her lip. "You have to
leave."

Elory rose to her feet,
clutching her hurt cheek. "My lady." Her voice was soft, hurt,
frightened. "You don't have to believe me. You only have to believe your own
magic. You only have to try. Our people cry out to you. They cry out for a
savior."

"I am not one of
you." Meliora's rage seared her tears dry. "I cannot be your savior.
I have no magic within me, no blood of dragons in my veins. I'm only a
sheltered, innocent princess who learned that the world is falling around her,
that she has no power over an empire her family rules. Now leave. Leave this
place! Return to the land whence my brother grabbed you. Return to Tofet. My
chariot will take you there."

When Elory reached
toward her again, Meliora grabbed the slave's arms. She pulled her out onto the
balcony. She all but shoved Elory into the chariot that waited there, and
Meliora could barely see, barely stand straight. All the world was the light of
stars, the flames of war, the light of the bronze bull, the darkness of her
fear.

"You have to
believe me!" Elory cried from the chariot.

"Go!" Meliora
shouted. "Firehorses, take her to Tofet! Take her from here. Take her
away. Never come back. Never."

The firehorses reared
and took flight, wings of fire hiding the sun, and the chariot left the
balcony. Elory cried out from within, reaching down to Meliora, calling her
name. But the firehorses were swift, carrying the slave off the balcony and
across the city.

"Remember
Requiem!" Elory cried, reaching out to her as the chariot flew into the
distance. "Use your magic, become a dragon. Requiem! May our wings forever
find your sky."

"Slay the
dragon!" chanted the seraphim below. "Slay the dragon!"

Meliora stood on the
balcony, tears on her cheeks, shaking so badly she had to clutch the railing,
staring at it all—the vanishing slave, the city of hatred, the land of chains
beyond, and it was too much, too much. Lies. All her life—lies. All her
life—crumbling around her.

Meliora turned away
from the view. She tried to stumble back into her room, but she was shaking too
badly. She fell to her knees, banging them on the floor, and her wings draped
around her, feathers missing and charred. She lowered her head. She wept.

Lies. All her
life—lies.

Remember Requiem!

Slay the dragon!

Requiem! May our wings
forever find your sky.

She knew those words.
That prayer. That holiest of prayers. It had filled her dreams since her
childhood—her dreams of dragons. Her dreams of stars.

Meliora knelt on the
balcony, burnt, broken, and so afraid, lost in a city of blood and gold and
tar. And all around, the chants still rose, pounding against her ears, shaking
the balcony, shaking her life.

"Slay the dragon!
Slay the dragon!"

 
 
ELORY

"Meliora!" she
shouted from the chariot of fire. "Remember Requiem! Use your magic!"

But the princess no
longer stood on the balcony, and Elory could barely see from within the
chariot. She stood here alone, the firehorses spreading wings, galloping across
the sky, carrying her back to the chains, to the yoke, to the pit of bitumen,
to the death of hope.

How had this happened?
The fire burned her tears. Meliora was supposed to save her. To save all of
them. Now her sister had banished her—back to a slow death in chains, for her,
for myriads of her kind.

"Meliora,"
Elory whispered, reaching toward the ziggurat, not knowing if any light could
still shine upon her life.

Thousands of seraphim
flew across the city, gliding on the wind, still chanting for death. Elory saw
that a great chariot of fire, larger than hers, was flying toward the
ziggurat's crest, moving close to Meliora's balcony and then soaring higher.
Hundreds of seraphim flew around this chariot, chanting, singing, blowing horns.
Thousands more stood in the city below or soared to behold the flaming carriage.
The banners of the Thirteenth Dynasty unfurled and caught the wind.

When the distant
chariot reached the ziggurat's crest, two figures emerged.

Elory had not thought
her life could shatter further, but as she stared, whatever remained of this
world collapsed around her.

Wreathed in light, his
armor and hair woven of purest gold, Ishtafel emerged from the chariot,
carrying a beaten, chained slave.

Vale.

My brother.

Elory screamed.

"Stop!" she
cried to the firehorses dragging her chariot. "Take us back. Turn around!
Take us back! Please!"

Yet the firehorses kept
flying away from the ziggurat, and Elory screamed again. Something tore in her
throat. She tasted blood. Her eyes burned. She reached out to the ziggurat,
crying his name.

"Vale! Vale!"

She watched, her soul ripping
apart, as Ishtafel slammed Vale against the platinum facade of the ziggurat,
pinning him against the engraved eye within a sunburst.

She watched, barely
hearing her own scream, hearing only the blood in her ears, as Ishtafel drew a
hammer and nails, as the seraph laughed, as he swung the hammer, nailing Vale's
hands into the ziggurat.

She watched, weeping,
screaming, as Ishtafel swung his hammer again, nailing Vale's feet into the platinum.

The Prince of Saraph
flew backward, his swan wings spread wide, laughing, a gilded god, triumphant.
Before him, upon the ziggurat's crest, Vale hung, nailed into the platinum,
arms spread wide, bleeding, still alive.

"Requiem!"
Vale managed to cry. "Remember Requiem!"

And then his voice
faded . . . drowning under the roar of the city, the chanting of seraphim, the
horns of victory, and Elory's own screams.

"Vale! Vale!"

The firehorses kept
dragging her chariot away, and she could only stare, weeping, reaching out to
him, as the ziggurat grew more distant behind her.

Elory tried to shift
into a dragon. She summoned all her magic, and her skin began to harden into
scales, her fingernails to grow into claws. But the collar—the damn
collar—shoved her back into human form. She tried again. For the first time in
her life, actual scales appeared on her body—they were lavender, she saw,
lavender scales like the ancient Vir Requis heroine Piri, the Healer who had
fought the nephilim—but the collar again dug into her neck, cutting her skin,
constricting her. She became a human again, a mere slave trapped in a chariot.

She wanted to jump off.
To fall to the city below. To die. To never see it again. To never hear her brother's
tortured cry. To forget. To die. To die. She wept.

The chariot kept racing
across the sky, taking her away from her brother, away from her sister, away
from the city, away from hope, away from light, away from the blood and
screams, away into despair.

Meliora will not
help me,
Elory thought, turning northward. She saw it ahead: the huts,
quarries, and tar pits of Tofet.
But one man still can. Our father.

 
 
ISHTAFEL

"Behold the blood of
Requiem!" His voice rang across the sky. "Behold the wretchedness of
the reptile!"

Ishtafel hovered in the
sky, a god of light, wings wide. Arms spread out, Vale hung upon the ziggurat's
crest, a dying wretch.

Master and slave.
Ishtafel grinned, sucking in air between his teeth. God and worm.

"So shall happen
to any who strike a seraph!" Ishtafel cried to the city. "Any slave
who defies a master will hang upon the Eye of Saraph, and the vultures will eat
his flesh."

The crowd of seraphim
roared across the city, cheering, worshiping him, praising his name. Ishtafel
rose higher, a god among gods, and in his mind he was flying in Requiem again,
slaying the beasts, shattering their halls, burning their forests. He had
wanted to find a new enemy, and here he found one—the slaves, the miserable
descendants of those warriors he had once crushed.

I will make you
suffer, weredragons.
Ishtafel licked his lips and gazed at Tofet on the
horizon.
The empire will run red with your blood. The cries of your
anguished souls, breaking under the yoke, will rise to Edinnu itself.

As he looked down at
the city, he saw them staring. Thousands of them. Slaves. The house slaves of
the seraphim—cooks, gardeners, tutors, pleasurers. Thousands of reptiles in
human forms, collared, staring at him. Silent. Among them rose the towering
statue of Reehan, gilded and beautiful in the sunlight—his precious beloved
whom the reptiles had slain. They would pay for that sin, now and every
generation.

"Kneel!"
Ishtafel shouted to the city. "Kneel before your god. Kneel, slaves!"

Yet across the city,
they still stood. Still stared.

One among them raised
his hand, and his voice rang across the city. "Requiem! May our wings
forever find your sky." The man stood on a roof, legs chained, hoarse
voice rolling across the city. "Remember Requiem!"

Ishtafel's grin stretched
his cheeks. "Yes." His voice was too soft for any to hear.
"Remember Requiem. I want you to remember, slaves. To remember how I broke
your kingdom."

He raised his lance. He
tossed it. The spear shot through the sky, a beam of light, streaming down
toward the city, and pierced the slave below. The creature fell, silenced.

"Make them
kneel!" he cried. "Seraphim, make them all kneel."

He held his arms out
wide, and the seraphim charged. Once more, they flew to battle. Once more, fire
and light filled the sky.

"Remember
Requiem!" a slave called, even as the wrath of Saraph descended upon them.

"Requiem!"
cried another. "May our wings forever find your sky."

Their voices rose
together across the city. "Requiem! Requiem!"

With flailing whips,
with thrusting spears, the seraphim descended upon them. Blades drove into
flesh. Whips tore into skin. The blood of the vermin splattered the city.

"Kneel!"
Ishtafel cried. "Kneel before your gods!"

They bled. They cried
out in anguish. And across the city, they knelt before him, the living among
the dead. Once more, vanquished. Once more, worshiping him.

Good,
he
thought.
That is what they are. Nothing but worshippers. Nothing but his
slaves.

A voice spoke behind
him, hoarse, cracking.

"A fire has been
kindled. Starlight shines. Requiem will rise."

Ishtafel turned in the
sky. His smile grew. "Still alive, are we?"

Vale hung upon the
ziggurat's crest, a thousand feet above the city, his hands and legs nailed
into the platinum. His blood dripped from many wounds, but he fixed his eyes on
Ishtafel.

"Something has
started here which you cannot stop," Vale said, the words bringing blood
to his mouth.

"Good."
Ishtafel nodded. "The city was getting a little dull."

He drew a dagger from
his belt. He flew closer to Vale and scraped the blade across the slave's side.
Vale screamed.