"No." Vale trembled, fell to his knees, and tossed back his head and cried out to the sky. "No! No!"
He stared again, eyes burning, chest shaking.
"I'm sorry," Jaren whispered, and a tear fled the old slave's eyes.
In his arms, the old man carried a mutilated corpse. Two limbs broken. A leg and arm missing. The face still whole, burnt in the sun, finally at peace.
"Mother!" Vale cried, then lowered his head and wept.
ISHTAFEL
He flew in his chariot of fire, taking his new slave from a land of death to a city of gold.
As the flames roared around them, Ishtafel caressed Elory's head. She sat before him, ankles hobbled with a foot-long chain, a collar around her neck. Brown stubble covered her head, shaved only days ago. Ishtafel preferred his women with long, flowing hair, but his mother—the damn crone—insisted on keeping the slaves shaven. An easy decree for the old bitch to pass. She wasn't the one seeking the slaves' pleasures in bed.
Elory shuddered at his touch, still not daring to look at him. She was a pathetic little thing, raw welts across her back, her body sticky with tar, her rags torn. But Ishtafel had never lacked in imagination. He had imagined the world cleansed of enemies, and he had cleansed that world. He could imagine Elory cleansed of filth, and he would cleanse her. He would make her as beautiful as the empire he had built. And he would conquer her body as surely as he had conquered the world.
"Why do you tremble at my touch?" he asked, letting his fingers flutter across her ear, caressing, exploring the shape of it. A small ear, barely larger than the tip of his thumb.
"I'm afraid," she whispered.
Ishtafel's smile grew. "You should be."
He remembered a time, five hundred years ago, when he himself had been afraid. He had been only a young seraph then, no older than thirty summers—a mere child. He had led his first campaign, a great invasion of the north. With thousands of flaming chariots, he had flown into a land called Requiem. He had faced the dragons in the sky. He had seen their mad eyes, their sharp claws, their streams of dragonfire flowing toward him, felling his fellow seraphim.
And yes, he had been afraid.
But I overcame that fear. He ran his hand down Elory's spine, pausing at the small of her back. The girl had such a narrow waist; narrower than his arm. I conquered Requiem. I slew those dragons who flew against me. I placed cursed collars around the necks of those I captured, forever crushing their magic. I lost a woman in the land of reptiles, and so I will claim women from among them.
He leaned down toward Elory and inhaled deeply, savoring her scent. She smelled of tar, smoke, and fear. An intoxicating smell. For five hundred years, Ishtafel had kept his playthings here in Saraph, the heart of his empire, refusing to let them die. Refusing to fear them again. The weredragons, once proud warriors who could rise as fire-breathing reptiles, were now nothing but his toys.
They flew over Tofet, the land Ishtafel's family had given to the weredragons: the pits of tar where chained dragons dug and collared slaves hauled out the bitumen; rocky fields where men, women, and children labored in the blinding sun, forming bricks from clay and straw; fields where slaves labored, sweating and bleeding and dying to grow produce from the dry earth. The land of Requiem lay in ruins in the distant north across desert, sea, and forest; here the nation of Requiem languished in the dust.
The flaming chariot kept flying, leaving Tofet behind. A river snaked below, gleaming silver. Here was the Te'ephim River, blessed life giver, shimmering in the sunlight, lined with rushes, palm trees, and fig trees. Upon its waters sailed countless ships from distant lands, bearing spices and gemstones and exotic animals in golden cages.
Past the water, the landscape changed, and they flew over Shayeen, the City of Kings, capital of Saraph.
Ishtafel inhaled deeply again, letting the aroma of the city below mingle with Elory's scent.
"Look below, child," Ishtafel said. "Behold the glory of Saraph. Behold the land of gods."
Shayeen was built as a wheel. Eight cobbled boulevards spread out like spokes, stretching for miles, the eight Paths of the Gods. Each road was lined with statues of one of the Eight Gods—towering idols of limestone, gilded, jeweled, forever watching over their holy pathways. Eight archways lined the outer wall, hundreds of feet tall, topped with statues of ancient heroes and kings. Within this wheel of stone rose the marvels of the city: columned temples, manors topped with hanging gardens, fortresses whose towers kissed the sky, obelisks capped with platinum, marble bathhouses, and amphitheaters.
It was the greatest city in the world, Ishtafel knew. A place of wealth, power, a vision of lost Edinnu reflected upon the earth. Thousands of years ago, his people—the golden seraphim—had lived in the heavens, dwelling in a land of light upon a distant star. But the seraphim had grown too mighty in their own eyes. They had rebelled against their gods . . . and they had lost.
We fell from the sky, Ishtafel thought. Lost children, cast aside from our gods. Yet we built here a new city of light. A new star to shine upon the cosmos. Here we will worship the gods until they forgive our sins. Until they call us home, until we ascend again to our lost paradise.
As the chariot crossed the sky, Ishtafel saw a statue rise ahead, carved of limestone and gilded, a hundred feet tall. The statue of a woman, fair and fierce, clad in armor, raising a sword.
Reehan.
Ishtafel winced. He always winced when passing by this statue. It had been five hundred years, but the sight of Reehan still hurt him. The memories still would not let go. And the slaves would still suffer for what they had done to his beloved.
He looked beyond the statue. In the center of the wheel-shaped city rose the greatest building in Saraph, the beacon of the empire. The ziggurat soared, over a thousand feet tall, its sandstone surfaces engraved with scenes of the seraphim's wars, conquests, and the ancient banishment. Its crest tapered into a triangle, coated with purest platinum, and upon it blazed an eye within a sunburst—the Eye of Saraph, all-seeing, casting its gaze across the world.
Ishtafel whipped his firehorses, and the flaming equines pulled the chariot across the sky, heading toward the ziggurat. Two colossal statues, shaped as cats with women's heads, guarded the staircase that led to its gates. Shaped as La'eri, the goddess of royalty, the statues stood so tall their eyes were larger than the chariot. The firehorses descended and landed between the feline guardians.
Ishtafel grabbed Elory, slung her across his shoulder, and alighted from his chariot. He was tall even for a seraph, close to eight feet tall, and his shoulders were nearly as broad as this slave was tall. He carried her like he would the carcass of a pretty bird, perhaps a peacock with bright feathers. She made not a sound and did not struggle as he carried her across the flagstones and toward an archway, the entrance to his family's ancestral home.
A dozen seraph guards stood before the gates, clad in gilded breastplates, holding spears and round shields, their wings purest white. They knelt before Ishtafel and bowed their haloed heads.
"You." Ishtafel snapped his fingers at one of the kneeling guards. "Come to me."
The seraph straightened and stepped forth. A bronze helmet hid his face, and his eyes gleamed, somber, through the eyeholes. "My lord!"
Ishtafel unslung the slave off his shoulder and shoved her into the guard's arms. "Have this one delivered to the bathhouse. See that the other slaves have her scrubbed clean and prepared for me, then see her delivered to my chamber. Have her waiting there when I return from tonight's feast."
"Yes, my lord!" The seraph nodded, beat his wings, and took flight. He soared up the ziggurat's flank, holding Elory in his arms, ascending toward Ishtafel's chamber a thousand feet above.
Ishtafel nodded toward the other guards, who pulled open the jeweled gates to the ziggurat's base. Ishtafel stepped through the archway, entering the palace.
It was the Day of Rebirth, the holiest day in Saraph's calendar, and he was late for the feast.
A towering h
all greeted him, a chamber so large that armies could have mustered within it. Golden columns rose in palisades, supporting a ceiling painted with scenes of lost Edinnu. A mosaic sprawled across the floor, displaying the hundreds of enemies Saraph had vanquished since its banishment three thousand years ago: the horned behemoths of the south, the wild demons of the east, and many more, including the weredragons, the cruel shapeshifters who now labored in Tofet. As Ishtafel walked across the mosaic, he stepped on these old enemies, smearing mud across their faces.
Thousands of seraphim crowded the hall already, the masters and mistresses of Saraph, lords of all seraphim, rulers of all conquered lands. They sat at ornately carved tables, turning toward Ishtafel as he entered. A feast steamed before them: roasted peacocks on beds of mushrooms and wild rice, their tail feathers reattached; entire roasted hogs upon baked apples, their crunchy skin glazed with honey; fruits of every kind, from sweetly scented persimmons to grapes the color of blood; endless pies of every sort, almost bursting with plums, savory duck, sweet peas, jams, and every other filling found across the empire; and finally wine . . . endless jugs, sweet chilled whites, delicate reds, deep strong crimsons, all pouring like rivers into mugs of ivory, platinum, and filigreed ostrich shells.
Not a single morsel had been touched. Not a single drop had been drunk. The seraphim, hundreds of them, had awaited him. Now they rose from their seats and knelt, wings folded across their backs.
Ishtafel took a step into the hall, and two young seraphim—mere boys—raised trumpets to their lips, and they blew a fanfare.
"Here enters Ishtafel!" one cried, lowering his horn. "Prince of Saraph! Slayer of Giants! Destroyer of Requiem!"
"And a bloody hungry bugger!" Ishtafel called out. "Let's eat."
Laughter rolled across the hall, and they ate.
Musicians, seraphim in flowing muslin robes, played lyres and harps upon balconies—the songs of old Edinnu, the Realm that Was. Dancers performed on a stage, wearing elaborate horned masks, depicting the beasts that had lived in the lost land. And everywhere scuttled the weredragon slaves—clad in simple livery, collars around their necks, their heads shaved, weak mortal beings, no taller than the seraphim's shoulders.
"Slave, here!" Ishtafel said, snapping his fingers at one of the beasts. The man rushed forth with a jug of wine and filled Ishtafel's cup. A second slave, a thin young woman with green eyes, approached with a tray of grapes. Ishtafel ate, pulled the slave onto his lap, and inhaled her scent until a third slave arrived with steamed shellfish, drawing his attention.
Since he had returned to Saraph a month ago, a great conqueror, the defeater of the giants, he had feasted here every day. The last enemy in the known world had fallen. Edinnu was lost, but Saraph—this new kingdom they had built in their banishment—now ruled the world they had fallen to.
After two more mugs of wine, he rose to his feet. He raised his mug, and across the hall, seraphim and slaves alike fell silent and turned to stare.
"Seraphim!" Ishtafel cried to them. "Raise your mugs with mine. Today is the Day of Rebirth. On this day, four thousand and four years ago, the Eight Gods punished us for our pride. They struck down our parents, those who had rebelled against them. They burned my own mother—your queen!—inflicting a wound upon her so dire that even today, so many years later, she languishes in pain rather than drinking with us here."
The faces grew dour. Seraphim lowered their heads. The banishment—it was an open wound upon his mother, the Queen of Saraph, but no less an open wound even to those, like Ishtafel, who had been born here in exile, who had never seen the lost paradise. The fall of Edinnu still cast a shadow upon all in Saraph.
"But we built a new kingdom!" Ishtafel said, louder now. "We fell to this world scared, scarred, cast out from paradise. But we fought. My father vanquished many enemies, building a great city in this land before his death. And I completed his work! Five hundred years ago, I crushed the kingdom of Requiem, taking the weredragons here to serve us as gods. Since that time, I fought every enemy that has risen against us, and I cast their bones into the dust. The last giant fell last moon, and now—now we in Saraph are masters of this world, gods of a new Edinnu!"
The seraphim roared in approval. Their eyes shone like their haloes. Their wings spread out. Only the slaves did not join the cheers; the little weredragons lowered their eyes, perhaps remembering their own fallen kingdom, a realm they would never more rebuild.
"So drink, friends!" said Ishtafel. "As my mother suffers from her wound, as our enemies lay dead around us, drink and be joyous, for we are gods. We—"
The hall doors slammed open with a clang.
Hissing in annoyance, Ishtafel spun to see who had dared interrupt his speech.
A woman stepped into the hall, clad in light, and Ishtafel's anger melted like snow under spring's dawn.
"Meliora," he whispered.
His sister was short for a seraph, no more than six feet tall, a childlike princess, cherubic and soft. She was not yet thirty, a babe among the immortals, the youngest in this hall. She gazed around with huge eyes like pools of molten gold—innocent eyes, eyes that had never gazed upon blood or war. She wore a muslin kalasiri dress, the white fabric embroidered with ibises, and a medallion of the Eye of Saraph shone upon her throat. Her hair flowed down to her hips, the color of dawn, and her wings were the white of purest snow. Her halo was so thin Ishtafel could barely see it, a ring of gold no wider than a thread.
Ishtafel paused, simply staring at her. Whenever he gazed upon his beloved sister, he lost his breath. Here was the purest among them—a seraph unsullied by war, by the fall from heaven. The most beautiful being on this world, a precious goddess to cherish, to worship, to forever protect. Ishtafel had lived for five hundred years, had hated many, had slain more. But since Reehan had died in the tunnels beneath Requiem, centuries ago, Ishtafel had not loved another soul. Not until twenty-seven years ago, when Meliora had been born.
It's not only the Day of Rebirth, he thought. It's my sister's birthday. It's the holiest day of the year.
"Meliora!" he called to her, holding out his hands as the other seraphim knelt before their princess. "Come to me. Dance with me."
A grin split her face, and she ran toward him across the mosaic, feet padding against the dragons of many tiles. Her two personal slaves followed—a pair of young, bald women whom Meliora took wherever she went like a girl with favorite pets.
"I love to dance!" Meliora said. "Can Kira and Talana dance with us?"
Ishtafel laughed. "Your pets are weredragons, my dear. Let them join the other slaves and help clean the empty plates."
Meliora bit her lip, looked at the two collared weredragons, then back at Ishtafel. "But . . . I want to teach them to dance too! I taught them already to sing the Song of the Silver Tree, and—"
"Meliora!" Ishtafel frowned. "That is a holy song of Edinnu. You had your slaves profane it with weredragon lips? Mother would have them burned in the bronze bull if she knew."
Meliora's bottom lip wobbled, and tears flooded her eyes. "No," she whispered. "Please don't tell Mother. Please! I'm sorry. Don't send them to the bull!" She lowered her head, tears flowing.
"Sister!" Ishtafel pulled her into an embrace. "Don't weep. I forget that you're but an innocent, silly thing with barely more sense than a child."
Meliora nodded. "I know that I'm silly, but don't scare me like that. I get so scared, Ishtafel! So scared of the bull. I dream of him sometimes, that he invades my bed, that . . ." Her cheeks flushed. "I promise not to teach Kira and Talana any more songs. I promise! I'll dance with you alone."
Ishtafel nodded at the musicians on the balcony, and they began to play his favorite song—the Burning of Requiem. It was a song of his first victory, a song commemorating that glorious war five centuries ago—he had been barely older than Meliora was now—when he had crushed the weredragons, toppled their halls, and brought them here in collars. Normally a robust marching song, the harpists played a sof
t, slow version of it, letting Ishtafel and Meliora sway gently in the hall. The other seraphim watched, heads bowed, giving their prince and princess the first dance of the night.
"When I was away in the south, fighting the giants, I missed you every day." Ishtafel tucked an errant strand of Meliora's hair behind her ear. "I thought of you every night before I went to sleep, and I remembered your face every morning as I slew more of our enemies."
Meliora's eyes shone. "I thought of you too, brother! I drew paintings of you, did you know? I went into the gardens every morning to paint you, and to watch the birds and the butterflies, and sometimes I'd try to count the flowers. I could never count them all, though. We have some new flowers this spring! I'll show you tomorrow, and there are some baby birds in the fig tree by the fountain."
He kissed her forehead. "Such a silly thing you are!" He laughed. "I speak to you of war and conquest, and you speak to me of birds and butterflies. But that's how I love you, sister. Pure. Your hands unstained with blood. Your eyes unsullied by the sight of death and war."
Meliora nodded, grinning. "War is for boys! I'm a princess of flowers. You can have the blood. I'll keep the baby birds."
The first song ended, and more music played, and more seraphim joined them in the dance. The sunbeams falling through the oculus gleamed on the golden tables, jeweled dishes, and the statues of gods that rose between the gilded columns. The birds painted onto the domed ceiling and the mosaic beasts glittered and seemed almost to be living things. The feasting, the drinking, and the dancing would continue all day and long into the night. By the time Ishtafel returned to his bedchamber and sought pleasure from his new slave, he would be well fed, a little drunk, and as weary as after a battle.
Yet despite the splendor of this place, despite the glory of his victory, a nervousness filled Ishtafel.
The time has come, he thought. After five hundred years of war, the time is here . . . the time to tell my sister.
He could hesitate no longer. He took a deep breath, cupped his sister's cheek in his palm, and spoke softly.
Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1) Page 4